Hellie 'a Brooklyn
by Brunette
Summary: When David Jacobs falls for Spot Conlon's girl, he starts a fierce war between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Love and jealousy reign supreme: let the destruction begin. An Illiad adaptation.
1. Love Conquers All

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_Love suffers long  
__And is kind  
Love envies not  
Love does not value itself  
Is not proud  
Does not behave itself unseemly  
Seeks not its own  
Is not easily provoked  
Thinks no evil  
Rejoices not in iniquity  
But rejoices in truth  
Love bears all things  
Believes all things  
Hopes all things;  
Love conquers all._

**1 Corinthians 13: 4 -- 8**

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	2. Paris and Helen

_Author's Note: Yeah, right, as if I need another chapter story. What do I care? Christmas break is in three days, and today I have absolutely nothing to do. Ta-da! This was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but then my Muse kicked me in the side and was all like "Hey, this is my domain-Greek mythology! See the parallels, dumbass?" Yeah, my Muse is a freakin' verbal abuser. So I gave her a raise and started to work._

_**Important:** This is an adaptation from **Homer's Illiad**, so I have taken the liberty of combining some characters and suiting others to better fit theplot. As for Helen, sobeat me, she's a Mary-Sue. Would you like to know why? Because Helen of Troy was a Mary-Sue. Yeah, that's right, Homer, I went there.Mary-Sue. _

* * *

**The Players**

Menelaus

_**Spot Conlon**, Brooklyn gang leader_

Helen

_**Hellie Caden**, Spot's girl_

Paris

_**David Jacobs**, Manhattan brains, second-in-command_

Priam

_**Jack Kelly**, Manhattan gang leader_

Cassandra

_**Sarah Jacobs**, Jack's girl, David's sister_

Achilles

_**Mush**, Manhattan prize-fighter_

Patroclus

_**Kid Blink**, Mush's best friend_

Hector

_**Trigger McKay**, Brooklyn gangmember_

* * *

**_PARIS AND HELEN_**

_Sutton's Lodge, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

The sun glimmered through the cobblestone streets upon its first waking, dancing on the rooftops, pirouetting down the alleys. It was a beautiful day, the sort of day that makes maids sing as they work and newsies whistle good-humoredly as they trot down the street. Though smoke billowed off of the high-stacked factory towers, and garbage was built up around the large blocks of cobblestone, there was a freshness in the golden zephyr that whispered down the lungs of men. On the stone ledges, the pigeons cooed, and boys tossed them crumbs from breakfast instead of shooing them away. In the apartments, mothers threw open their windows and started singing tunes of the old country, and fathers joined in readily. Children were allotted a few extra minutes to sleep, and when they did awaken, they were smiling and satisfied, and resisted urges to pick on one another. It was Easter morning, Christ had risen.

And as husbands whetted their razors to be sure their faces were free from stubble, and as wives pulled out that dress of fitted white lace and pastel satin, an air of beauty hung all about. Contentment, the realization that there were things beyond their ability to change, and that their blessings were far greater than their curses. The families held hands about the kitchen table and praised God for their stability and His provisions. The sun's bright face gleamed happily at these families, meandering through the network of streets and up the dull brick walls. The long beams of light illuminated the world of the early morning, and slowly, reluctantly started towards those lesser places, for the golden zephyr must also dirty her feet in the alleyways leading to houses of ill repute. Here, she struggled, pushing through grimy glass and under cracked doors, brushing passed the rats and insects that wandered in plain view. She crawled up a dirty brick wall, resting momentarily on the rotten wood sign: "Sutton's Lodge," before reaching the first dirt-streaked window and forcing herself within.

Heavy, gasping breaths. A low, long moan. Sunlight sprawled across muscle and spine, broad shoulders, the nape of a neck. It danced in the waving brown silk of a shock of curls, fighting for dominance with the slender olive fingers that ran through them. Now two long, smooth legs wrapped around the narrow waist, no longer hidden by the ratted blanket that had sheltered the bottom halves of two bodies entertwined. Their breathing intensified, and their moans grew louder and longer to screams almost, before slowly elapsing back.

_"Don't stop. . ."_

It was a plaintive request from the body beneath. As if in response to herself, she let out one last, loud wail before the body on top of her rolled off.

"It's. . .morning," he managed amidst his shallow breath. He turned his head, studying the exhausted form beside him in satisfaction. Her dark, doish eyes were closed and she labored for her breath. He flipped to his side, running his index finger down her jawline softly. This provoked a smile to light her lovely, pink lips and reveal her straight, white rows of teeth.

"No one would ever believe me if I told 'em," she whispered in amusement, turning on her side now to face him and stare into his beautiful eyes. "They all think you's the perfect straight-laced gentleman."

He smirked smugly. "What can I say ... I'm well-rounded."

Her fingers slid around his sweat-slicked neck, pulling his lips onto hers. His hand wandered familiarly to her hips, drawing them against his own. In a single motion, she flipped to her back, pulling him on top of her again.

"We can't do this again -- we're already late."

"Make the bastards wait," she retorted, running her fingertips over his back.

"What about Spot?" he presented in a murmur, betraying any protest in his words.

"Fuck Spot," she muttered, settling herself comfortably beneath him. "He's with his whores."

His lips left her neck momentarily. _" 'Whores'?"_

She pulled his head down against her again, casually responding, "Yeah, he's fucking 'em two at a time now."

"Idiot," he muttered against her skin. "He's got the most beautiful girl in the world, and he's got to do two girls at at time. If that is narcisstic --"

An impatient sigh escaped her lips. "Quit with the big freakin' words and make love to me, would ya, Davey? You's the one who says we're late."

David Jacobs, Brains of Manhattan, smirked at her insistence. He looked at theirs as a _Romeo and Juliet _situation -- he was second-in-command of Manhattan, and she was Hellie Caden, Queen of Brooklyn. She was the reason he could always smile, knowing that as his friends jealously eyed Spot Conlon, they should have been glaring at him. Sure, she was Spot's girl, but she loved David. The only difference that kept them from truly adapting Shakespeare's hallowed roles was the fact that Brooklyn and Manhattan were on good terms. They'd met as a matter of manners at the celebration party the newsies held after winning the strike. David remembered every eye studying her closely -- guys and girls alike. She was what every guy wanted to call his own, and what every girl wished she looked like: a beautiful, angular face with deep lovely eyes and high cheekbones. Her hair looked like spun silk, an array of chocolates and chestnuts and burnt golds. She was slim and slender, but not lacking in hips nor bosoms. She was crowned the most beautiful in New York, and every boy, single or spoken for, yearned for her as soon as he laid eyes on her.

As a rule, Spot had discovered her long before anyone else. And he boasted being the only guy to ever screw her, and still did, even if it had ceased to be true some time ago. He didn't know. No one knew. Nobody would ever suspect. Davey wouldn't be a guy a girl would cheat with -- everyone's broad was perfectly safe around him, because he was nobler than that. Hell, take her, Davey. Why don't you give her a dance? Spot never even thought to suspect. And Hellie -- Hellie was so devoted and in love, and Davey was so trusted -- you mind walking her home after a time, Davey? I see somethin' over there I wouldn't mind havin' for the night. And that's how it had started: overestimation. Spot was egotistical, David was a saint, Hellie was in love.

Until, of course, she yanked Davey into a closet in the Brooklyn Boarding House. But even if she did step out of line (drunk or somethin') -- Davey would never let her go too far. He'd remind her that she had a good boyfriend waiting for her, of course he would. Until he slipped his hand under the layers of skirts and undid a few restrictions ...

And Spot was still too egotistical to even suspect infidelity, much less coming from Jack's uptight second-in-command. That was the best way to have an affair, after all. In the least-likely places, in the least-likely ways.

Eventually, David rolled off of Hellie again. He kissed her deeply before finally sitting up, the sun making attempts to dry the sweat that rolled off of his body. She still lay there, breathing heavily, staring up at the ceiling. Finally, she steadied her breath and reached to the tableside for a cigarette.

"You want one, Davey? Before you go?"

He shook his head. "They'll smell it on me and get suspicious."

She smiled, bemused. "Who? The gang or your sister?"

Pulling on his pants, he retorted, matter-of-fact: "Both."


	3. Achilles

_**ACHILLES**_

_Racetrack's Boxing Ring, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

The sun blazed now. In the empty lot just a block from the Manhattan Lodging House, the heat beat heedlessly down on the excited crowd in a manner not unlike the beatings Crook Ashey was suffering--blow after blow delivered with no more mercy than the one before by the massive fists of knotted muscle and bone. Sweat poured down the backs of the two fighting, the briny fluid ebbing down every definition of muscle--down their powerful necks, slipping down pectorals and abdomenals and soaking into the waistbands of their only articles of clothing. Female sighs were audible nearly every dozen seconds, causing a few boys to glare, offended, and some to nod their agreement. They weren't going to deny it--Mush was a man. A hell of a lot more man than they were.

"Break his fucking head, Mush!"

Again, his fist crashed into the bruised face, blood leaking onto his clenched fingers. With a dizzying struggle, Crook stumbled backward and fell on his back into the dust. The Manhattan crowd cheered, reaching out their hands to give their champion a congratulatory pat. His panting breath struggled out of his mouth as he smiled, exhausted, wiping away the blood that trickled down his nose with the back of his hand. It was already stained with the sticky, red stuff, anyway.

"C'mon, fellas, pay your debts! Pay your debts! C'mon, Bronxy, put 'er down!" Racetrack Higgins shouted. Sullenly, the travelers from the Bronx laid their coins on Race's table. It was right about that time David came sauntering up to the stand. "C'mon, Bronxy, you had seventy-five cents on this--jeeze, that's gotta hurt." He glanced up, smile shining. "Hey, Davey! Where you been? Missed a terrific fight."

His friend shrugged. "You know...around."

Racetrack scoffed, raising his eyebrows. "Well you missed a damn terrific fight." He turned his attention amicably back to his debtors:

"Lay 'er down, Bronxy--we don't got all day! Odds? About a bazillion to one. Terrific fight, eh, Bronxy?"

"Go to hell," one spat, tossing down a quarter. Racetrack shook his head good-humoredly.

"Their prize-fighter, Crook Ashey: I think he's dead. Don't quote me or nothin', but I'd say he pretty well bit the dust."

David glanced up, watching the fighter's friends carry him off the ring. "Is Jack around?"

Race shrugged. "Sure, I s'pose. Don't know why not. How's your sister doin'?"

The question was posed quietly, causing the older Jacobs son to sigh and stiffly shrug his shoulders. He was hoping Sarah would kick back into normalcy soon, but she was still in a hell of a stupor. Their parents had died, five months ago, after contracting a harsh case of pneumonia--first Meyer, then Esther. Sarah had been hit the worst, finding outlandish reasons to blame herself and eventually work herself into hysterics. She faded in and out of normalcy--weeks would go by when she would act as if she were healed, and then, suddenly, violently, she'd explode. And for days she would go about screaming, shouting, cursing--bringing herself pain. They would be forced to put her in an empty room where there was nothing she could harm herself with and let her scream. And then, as if someone had pushed a button on an elevator, she would return to normalcy as if nothing had happened at all. David and Jack agreed to refusing to take her to a head doctor--he'd only have her committed to an asylum, and, besides, they didn't have the money to pay a head-shrinker to sentence their beloved girl to the tortured cells of a prison for the damaged. Eventually, she had to get over it, didn't she?

Her longest periods of normalcy lasted when she was in the constant presence of Jack. He seemed to coax her out of her painful reverie and kept her in the real world longer. That was the reason why David consented to Jack and Sarah sharing a room, the reason why he consented to Jack living with them instead of at the Lodging House. The more she remained stable, the closer she was to feeling better completely.

"Okay, for now," David mumbled vaguely. Racetrack nodded his understanding. Just then, Crutchy hobbled over.

"Ha! Ten cents on Mush and it's all mine!" he held out his hand expectantly, but Race only gave it an incredulous stare.

"That ain't one-hundred percent true, my friend," he started. "You see, you bet _for_ Manhattan, so sixty percent 'a that's mine."

"That ain't fair, Race!" Crutchy protested, turning to David for reassurance. "Ain't that right, Davey?"

"Did you agree to split it sixty-forty, Crutchy?" David asked.

" 'Course he did, it's my policy," Race intervened, leaning back smugly.

"But it ain't--"

"Nice match, Mush."

The entire argument was dropped as their prize-fighter approached the stand authoritatively.

"Thanks," he breathed, taking a swig from a flask of water. "You give Blink my pay-off?" he asked skeptically.

Racetrack bobbled his head affirmatively. "Yeah, yeah, 'a course."

Mush grabbed him by the collar, staring him manevolently in the eye. "You know I could rip you apart."

The bookie gulped. Mush's handsome face broke out into an amused smile. "But you know I wouldn't, 'cause I like you too much, Racey."

He let go of the wrinkled cotton, giving his friend a playful smack on the arm. "Any 'a you's seen Blink?"

They responded that they hadn't.

"We're taking out some good-lookin' dames tonight, and I wanna make sure we're still on for it."

Racetrack laughed nervously, still a little shaken by the mock threat. "What girl would turn you down, Mush?"

The boxer's eyes were transfixed on something across the street. Slowly, their gazes caught on, following Spot Conlon and his heads making their way toward Tibby's. On the gangleader's arm, smiling royally, was that enigmatic beauty, Hellie Caden.

"How 'bout that one?" Mush whispered, gaze never wavering.

David fought the smirk that wanted to crawl up his face. He jerked his head in the direction they were heading amiably.

"You had a good fight, Mush. How 'bout we buy you some lunch?"

He smiled his charming, surprisingly honest smile. "I could use some food."

"I could use somethin' good to look at," Racetrack murmured, still staring after the passed group.

His friends smirked their agreement, starting at a brisk walk toward Tibby's.

* * *

_Tibby's Restaraunt, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"You understand what I mean, though, Blink," Jack murmured almost inaudibly.

The single-eyed newsie nodded, glancing out across the restaurant. They were virtually hidden from sight in one of the back-corner booths at Tibby's. Pulling back his sleeve, his eye averted to his watch.

"Almost eleven-thirty, Jack. Crowd's gonna be in soon."

His leader let out a slow sigh. "I know. You won't say anything to Davey about this, will ya, Blink?"

Kid Blink shook his head seriously. " 'Course not, Jack, if you don't want me to. But you's gonna have to tell him sooner or later, 'fore he finds on his own."

Jack ran a hand through his golden-toned brown hair, shaking his head in wonder. Staring down at the table, he couldn't help but mutter:

"But what if she's right, Blink? I mean, you would know, right? Seein' as how your ma was a fortune-teller. Can any 'a that be for real?"

He shrugged, picking up his half-downed coffee. "She always said it was." And a smirk danced across his face. " 'Course my ma was a freakin' loon."

Jack smirked, his lagging belief forcing everything to look hilariously humorless.

" 'For the love of a love of a friend, your friend will be your foe.' What the hell is that supposed to mean, Blink?"

His friend shrugged his puzzlement. "Did you ask her?"

The gangleader bit his lip, whispering harshly. "She was nuts, Blink. Fucking nuts. She kept sayin' it and sayin' it and sayin' it until she fucking passed out. Then she was normal."

Blink's eye scanned the room beyond as Spot Conlon and his following sauntered into the restaurant. Jack followed his gaze, smiling at the sight of his companion in the war with the newspapers, and now in the peace that had followed.

"Spot always gets lunch in Manhattan."

Kid Blink studied the cocky gangleader as he leaned in to kiss his girl. "I'd be watchin' my friends if I was you."

He finished off the rest of his coffee, by now icy cold, but he didn't grimace. He felt Jack's eyes on him, puzzled.

"You think it'd have to do with Spot?"

Blink shrugged. He hated these kind of discussions. There were no answers, only lifted shoulders that stated a lack of knowledge and hope for it.

"I'm sayin' it's got to do with your friends, and Spot's your friend."

"So are you," Jack reminded.

Again, he shrugged. "So keep your eye on me, too."

"You think all this hocus-pocus shit'll amount to somethin'?" he stared across the room, catching the amused gaze of his brother-in-arms, who inclined his head in a gesture of respect before grinning and motioning toward the booth. Jack shook his head. "She's just nuts."

Blink sighed, standing to go. "If you say so. I'll take the tab."


	4. Menelaus, the King

_**MENELAUS, THE KING**_

_Tibby's Restaraunt, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Spot Conlon considered himself one of the most powerful, if not _the_ most powerful newsie in New York. Sure, Jack Kelly had his respect, but he had nowhere near his pull. Spot knew how to keep a good gang--he'd kept it for a long time. He knew how to handle situations, and he knew when punishment should be inflicted, or mercy granted. He knew how to strategize, how to make plans work, and how to put on a good act if necessary. Coming into Manhattan, with his whole crew for lunch, was not simply a matter having to do with the quality of food served at Tibby's. He hadn't seen Jack in quite some time now, and he needed to pay a visit. They weren't just allies, they were friends. Friends didn't just fight alongside each other, friends--_true friends_--were willing to fight to the death not only alongside each other, but for each other. That's what made him confident in his ties with Manhattan. A Brooky had no fear walking through Manhattan at any time of the night or day, and a Kelly gangmember had the same liberty in Brooklyn. Borders were hardly scrutinized. Spot liked Manhattan. He thought that they needed a little bit of update in class--Kelly should be carrying around a stylish weapon that could always be inflicted, something not unlike his cane. There should also be more girls hanging around, because girls were class.

Spot came to respect Jack for sticking to his girl, but somehow his men needed to understand that he at least had the _power_ to have as many as he wanted. Girls were power, too. Especially beautiful ones. That's what made him so proud of Hellie, after all. She made for a tremendous display of power. Spot had yet to find one girl anywhere to even come close to her--the girl even had pretty looking _feet._ And, though she was always seen on his arm, the important thing was that rumors circulated that he had other girls besides her. That was critical. It meant that he was impenetrateable--that he wasn't bound and enslaved by the beauty of a woman, that he ruled his own territory, and no girl had any say just because she was beautiful. A lot of guys would consider a beautiful girl--_the_ beautiful girl--enough to keep them enslaved to loyalty, while she caroused wherever she wanted. Of course, Spot wasn't no everyman. Hellie was beautiful, sure, but he was the best there was. No girl cheated or messed around on him--_he_ had the power in the relationship, she was begging _him_ not to leave. And that's the way it was supposed to be.

Just as they sat down at a table adjacent to Jack's booth, David, Crutchy, Racetrack, and Mush sauntered in, sitting across the room at a table by the window. Spot glanced at his crew, each one separately out of the corner of his eye, though his attention appeared to be focused on greeting Jack. He always kept a close watch on where his subjects' attention was. Clue, his second-in-command, was scoping out the restaraunt, though Spot was the only one who could tell that he was. The girl Spot had sporting beside Clue, Polly (dumb as a brick, but she did have her talents), smiled flirtishly at Jack. Flint was busy lighting another cigarette--he liked to smoke them two at a time; four, if he wasn't eating. Flint's girl, Sonja, could hardly speak English, but did her best to study the body language of a person speaking. For the most part, she could piece together the correct meaning. Spot liked Sonja. Body language was her mother-tongue.

Hellie glanced out the corner of her eye to the table across the room. Spot leaned in close to her, whispering:

"You recognize them?"

She shrugged. "I'll bet you introduced us."

He nodded. No matter what expression she had on her face, even one of boredom, she still managed to be a masterpiece to look at. Spot loved showing off, and with Hellie, he didn't even have to work for attention. Eyes were always on her, and so naturally on him.

"That there's Mush--that prizefighter over here. Real famous--he beat Sanders a few weeks back--'member we came and watched 'em? Hell of a man."

Hellie nodded, smiling politely. Spot's ego enjoyed an expansion. There he was, showing her the strongest, toughest guy in all of the Lower East Side, and she was more interested in him.

"Kinda like you, huh?" she murmured playfully. He smirked, pointing out the newsie adjacent Mush.

"Davey--you remember him, right? He took you home from our celebration--you know, for winnin' the strike."

She studied the form across the room, his eyes lifting and penetrating her gaze. Hellie feared that she was giving herself away until Spot said:

"Why don'tcha go and talk to him, honey? He was a nice guy, right?"

She nodded. "A real gentleman."

A grin broke out across his face. "That's our Davey." His hand ventured suggestively to her thigh beneath the table. "But it ain't me."

Hellie smirked serenely. "No, it ain't."

Spot leaned in, kissing her neck and slowly moving his lips back up to her ear.

"I got a meetin' after lunch, but I think I'm skippin' it, if ya know what I mean."

She smiled knowingly, standing to go. "I hope you do."

Hellie had read before, (not that she much cared for reading, but loneliness drives the mind to unnatural things) in cheap dime romance novels, about women who acted disgusted when their husbands suggested sex while they were having affairs. Didn't their husbands ever think that was odd? Hellie always put on the air of anticipating Spot's every touch, every murmur, every kiss. She didn't exactly enjoy his intimacy anymore, but she figured it was a small price to pay to keep her affair unsuspected and her and David alive. The more Spot trusted her, the more he left her alone.

She crossed the room in her measured steps and came to stand before the table. All sets of eyes stared at her, mouths agape, as if in amazement that she was even real, much less stood before them. Hellie smiled broadly, as if she did not even notice their awestruck gawks.

"Hello, David. Remember me?"

He studied her, eyes wide, as if trying to figure out her reasoning behind this risky action.

"Umm...yes, yes, of course. Hellie Caden," he finally answered.

She smiled again. "It's real nice seeing you again. I don't think I seen you since...jeeze, I suppose that party here in Manhattan."

David nodded. "You're welcome to come and see me anytime you want."

A look of genuine amusement lit her lovely features. "I will sometime. You was wonderful talkin' to."

He smiled now, too. She glanced back at her table, and then her gaze flitted, split second, across the street to an abandoned brick building. David glanced out of the corner of his eye at her subtle prompt, then back to her eyes. Here? Now? That was too dangerous. His expression darkened ever so slightly, and her head declined almost undectably. Another time then. But not again today.

"I guess I should be going..."

He nodded. "Nice seeing you."

She smiled. "It's been nice seeing you, too."

As soon as she was out of earshot, the eyes of David's friends turned to him in shock.

"You walked her home?!" Racetrack demanded, his voice hissing in a loud whisper.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah..."

"You walked _her_ home," he repeated, enunciating every word.

David nodded his head. "Well, yeah. Spot asked me to. He was after another girl."

Crutchy leaned back in his seat, letting out a sigh of disbelief. "Wouldn't you have some luck."

Mush gave him a smack from across the table. "C'mon, Davey, tell us what she's like! That's a real jerky thing to do, walkin' the prettiest dame in New York home and keepin' it all to yourself."

David shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal. I mean, we didn't really talk much."

_Which was actually true..._

Crutchy wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "So...she was bound to be a little pissed with her boyfriend up with another girl, right? She wanna get back at him, huh?"

David rolled his eyes. "Crying out loud..."

"Ah, leave him alone, Crutchy," Racetrack sighed. "Davey wouldn't do no other guy's girl. He's like a...whaddya call? A knight! He's like a knight. What was that knight's name?"

Again, David was fighting off a smirk as he supplied: "Lancelot?"

"Yeah, that one. Lancelot didn't do no king's queen."

"Funny you should use that analogy, Race," he murmured under his breath. The bookie didn't hear him.

David looked about the room as the guys changed the subject. It was right then he broke, and he couldn't stand it anymore. Spot had his lips pressed against Hellie's temple, but under the table, his hand was pulling the fabric up from Polly's knee. He tried looking away. But pounding in his mind was the image--that one and hundreds more. He couldn't stand it. He hated seeing her treated this way. He'd _always hated _seeing her treated this way, but...Everybody, everything--living and non--has its breaking point. Seeing Spot carelessly toy with the girl he loved at that moment was the time too many.

He felt as if he soul climbed out of his body; as if he was watching all the action from the rafters of the restaurant. He saw himself stand up, heard his friends ask what he thought he was doing--the food had just come. He watched on, breath held, as he took Spot Conlon by the shoulder and jerked him back. He saw every shocked gaze--the blue of the gangleader's eyes crystalize angrily, and the tender beauty of Hellie's eyes plead a change of mind. He saw Jack jump to his feet as he heard himself yell:

"Stop it! Stop it, you cocky bastard!"

He watched as Spot stood up quickly, brow furrowed angrily and cane raised, ready to take a fatal crack at his head, and he saw Jack grasp the bar of wood and force the brass head from its course. He saw, more than felt, Jack grab his shirt and shove him back as Spot's lackeys rushed to restrain him, and he heard more than spoke the fatal line:

"You think you got her down?! You don't! You think she was sleeping by herself last night?! She was with me!"

"You're fucking crazy," Spot spat, tranquilizing himself now. "He's drunk or somethin'."

His eyes flew wildly to Hellie. "Tell him, beautiful! Tell him the truth! You don't have to be treated like this! You can stay in Manhattan with me. Please, Hellie, tell him the truth!"

And it was silent. Tense, twisted, bitter quiet. Nevermind that the sun scorched the pedestrians outside; that it blazed white hot and bright in the cloudless sky. Within Tibby's, the air was ice and Arctic fire, each breath labored more difficultly than the one before, and every eye was focused intently on the beauty who had inadvertantly caused the commotion. Her pink lips trembled fearfully, and her dark eyes were wide and brimmed with tears as she stared at David. A golden thread of freedom was twisting in the zephyr before her face, and it shone in the pleading eyes of the one she loved. Her sigh was relief and calm resolve. Her gaze turned to her boyfriend evenly, and her brow furrowed in satisfied defiance.

"It's the truth, Spot."

A rage kindled within the Brooklyn gangleader, and his furious glare snapped to David Jacobs. That _bastard!_ He'd trusted him! Let him walk his girl home, let him dance with her and talk and laugh. He'd let the prick get the sort of night every other guy only dreamed of, and why? Because Davey was supposed to be a good, trustworthy guy. Freaking rat! Snake-in-the-fucking-grass! Spot lunged at him, but Jack took the brunt, for there remained within him an irrational belief that he had to protect David from everything--his vulnerability, his gullibility, made him a victim to the underworld.

"Spot, we can work this out--"

"I'll kill the bastard! Fuckin' son of a bitch bangin' my girl! _I'll kill him!"_

David reached over to take Hellie's hand and pulled her over. Mush stepped up beside Jack.

"Take her home, Davey," he muttered. "Let Jack handle this one."

It was always "let Jack handle this one." Jack took care of all his problems, like David couldn't do it himself. He'd gotten himself into this one, hadn't he? Jack hadn't even known--_no one_ had known--except David and Hellie, and he should be taking care of this. But when he looked into the crazed eyes of Spot Conlon, he knew better than to try this on his own. Spot was a fighter, and now he was pissed. David wasn't going to let his stupid pride kill him. He nodded his understanding, leading Hellie towards the kitchen of the restaurant. Going out the back way seemed to be the right thing to do at the time.

Jack saw, out of the corner of his eye, the retreating forms of his friend and the lover of another. He wanted to be pissed at David, but he was too confused about the whole situation to know exactly who to blame. He didn't want to blame David, he didn't want to blame Spot, so his malice fell naturally on the shoulders of the one person involved he didn't really know: Hellie. And as Spot was being restrained, his gaze wild, his threats dire, only one phrase was echoing in his head, and it made his stomach knot with cruelty and irony: _"for the love of the love of a friend, your friend will become your foe."_


	5. Sparta Declares War

_**SPARTA DECLARES WAR**_

_Tibby's Restaraunt, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Clouds were gathering in the expanding gray sky, stretching over the few squares of light that glittered down from the high buildings. Amazing, it seemed, how the sun could scorch the earth so easily, and just as easily slip behind the gloom of colorless clouds, whose heavy wool was catching on the shining pinnacles of the skyscrapers. The jutting points pierced the thick tufts, causing rain to spill forth from their frazzled flax. Drops splashed blandly on the cobblestones, seeping into the dried debris and racing down the sides of the hot brick faces of buildings.

"You know this means a war, Kelly."

The statement was mumbled, regretting, reluctant. Jack Kelly shrugged, his face blank. He wanted another option. He _needed_ another option. A war with Brooklyn was nobody's walk in the park. He leaned forward, eyes desparate, tone pleading:

"C'mon, Spot. Can't you let this go? For the alliance?" he shook his head, correcting himself immediately. "For our _friendship?"_

Brooklyn sighed, shaking his head. "What would _you_ do?" he demanded harshly. "What would you do to the bastard screwin' your girl?"

Reluctantly, Jack whispered, "I'd kill him."

His friend nodded. "You see where I'm comin' from?"

"I _know_ where you're comin' from. But _you_ know I can't letcha hurt Davey. He's like me brother. He's my right hand."

Spot nodded, avoiding his eyes. "Yeah, I know that."

"I don't want no war, Conlon. Not with you, not with anybody. But especially not with you. We couldn'ta won the strike without you."

"You're damn right you couldn't," his friend muttered darkly, running his finger over the warped wood between them.

Jack sighed, letting go of any pride he had left. "Please, Spot. I'm beggin' ya--let this dame go. She ain't worth it."

Brooklyn's eyes flashed electrically up at him: a dangerous foreboding like the crack of thunder lit his gaze.

"That dame and that right-frickin'-hand of yours just cost me my reputation. No bitch, I don't care how high her ass is, cheats on Spot Conlon, and nobody screws around with her without facin' some dire fuckin' consequences."

Jack shook his head, the cold words awakening his irritation. "It's your damn pride."

Spot's gaze lost none of its warning. "Sure as hell is. That's what _everything's_ about, Cowboy. It all comes back to pride. If I didn't have no pride, I wouldn't be runnin' Brooklyn, and don't try to tell me you ain't a cocky bastard, 'cause you wouldn't have Manhattan if you wasn't. How can I call myself a man if I don't teach those fuckin'..."

Not being able to procure an abomination strong enough, he settled for:

"If I don't teach them a lesson they ain't never gonna wake up from? Who do I got respectin' me if I let a little whore beat me? I can't let this go like it was nothin'. _You_ know I can't _do _that."

Jack sighed regrettably. He stared out the window at the raindrops that slid down the pane.

"And you know I gotta protect 'em. I can't let you kill them--either of them. I protect Davey and Davey's protectin' her. I just _can't_ let you..."

Spot shrugged hopelessly. "That's why there's gotta be a war."

His friend stared at him steadily. "You can call this off."

Brooklyn met his gaze evenly. "And you can hand 'em over."

Jack opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself and nodded sullenly. "I get it, Spot."

Conlon met his eyes, though he was unable to hide his remorse. "I'm glad, Jacky-Boy," he whispered sadly.

Jack Kelly really didn't want to smile. There was nothing in him that desired his lips to turn upward, yet they did. He was smiling, and there were tears welling in his eyes. He refused to look into his friend's gaze as he spit into his hand and held it out ironically.

"May the best gang win."

Spot aimed a wad of saliva at his palm and clasped his friend's hand in a disdainful shake.

"Ain't personal, Kelly."

Jack shrugged. "Nah, I know that."

"It's between me and them, and you's puttin' yourself in the way."

At this comment, the Manhattan gangleader's eyes jumped to the gaze of the king of Brooklyn.

"He's my friend," Jack stated evenly, eyes flashing.

Something in Spot's eyes faded for a moment, and had he been anyone else--anyone normal and weak--he would have looked hurt. But the look passed and he took a deep breath, slamming his fist on the table. "_I'm yah friend!_ What does _that _matter, huh?! We's gettin' inta a war, and it ain't even us! I ain't beggin' ya, Jack, I'm_ tellin'_ ya--bring me them rotten scabs!"

Kelly shook his head. "No, Conlon. You's gonna have to come and get 'em."

Brooklyn's eyes narrowed manevolently. Standing, he whispered, his tone threatening though his voice was ragged from the want of a sob:

"You're gonna be sorry ya said that."

Jack took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'm already sorry," he mumbled ironically. "But sorry don't change nothin'."

Spot shrugged, standing to go. "Words don't change nothin', Kelly. All we's had is words."

"I don' wanna fight you, Conlon."

Now it was Brooklyn's turn to smirk. "I wouldn't wanna fight me, neither."

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

David and Hellie, soaking wet, ran up the narrow staircase to the Jacobs' apartment, still occupied despite their parents' deaths. David reached into his pocket, yanking out the key and jamming it into the lock. The metal rattled a little as he turned the rusted key, throwing open the door. The pair was shaking uncontrollably; though the rain had been warmed by the sun-baked atmosphere, their nerves were shot, rendering their bodies to involuntary shaking.

Hellie wanted to demand her lover's reasoning behind this mess he had caused, but she didn't have a breath left in her lungs from the yards they had just completed in record time. On top of that, David's fingers were crawling over her body, struggling with the laces and buttons in their water-logged state. Gently, she pushed his hands away.

"Darling, you're going to get sick in those wet clothes--"

The brevity of her demand wiped the devilish smirk from his face:

"What the hell were you thinking?"

His brow furrowed as he studied her in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

Hellie rolled her eyes in irritation. "David--David, we had a really good thing goin'. Nobody knew--we could see each other almost whenever we wanted, and Spot didn't suspect nothin'. Now...who knows what could happen. . ."

David shrugged, gazing at her boyishly. "So? What difference does it make? Did you _want_ to stay with Spot?"

She shook her head, her face contorted with confusion. "No...I just...I didn't _want_ to, but, baby...it was safe, David. We was safe."

He sighed, drawing near to her again. In a moment, she felt his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, their bodies pressed close with only their sopping clothes as barriers. He leaned his forehead against hers, staring into her fearful eyes. Why were her eyes always beautiful? When she was angry, when she was unsure, when she was disgusted--she was always beautiful.

"You're safe here," he whispered, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek softly. "You're safe right here."

Hellie wanted desparately to protest, but she felt a calm washing over her. She swung her arms around his neck lifting her face to meet his kiss. His hands slid down her waist, tangling themselves in the knots of her bodice.

_"Ah-hem."_

The sarcastic grunt froze the pair, eyes turning wildly to the form of Sarah leaning against door frame of her room. Her eyes were coldly unamused.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she stated sardonically after a delayed pause. "Was I interrupting anything important?"

David's fingers threaded themselves out of Hellie's clothing. She slid sheepishly out of his embrace.

"Didn't think so."

"Umm, Sarah, I'd like you to meet Hellie Caden--"

His sister's brow rose. "I've met her. Spot and Jack's party--I remember."

Hellie avoided her stony gaze. A gaping quiet stretched on for a moment or two.

"I didn't know you were home," David shattered the silence lamely. Sarah shot him a foreboding glare.

"Good thing I found you first. Les's around here somewhere."

A shade of rose flushed her brother's cheeks. Somehow, David figured it would have been better if it had been Les. Les would have turned and ran in the other direction. Les would've spilled his guts, but by that time David would've been prepared with the explanation. Sarah had caught him completely off-guard. Sarah probably wasn't going to let him take Hellie into his room, either.

"Where's Jack?" she demanded suddenly.

David shrugged. "Tibby's, I think. Look, Sarah, we're cold, we're wet--can we save this for another time?"

Sarah shook her head authoritatively. "I don't think so."

Hellie's eyes lifted suddenly. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

The Jacobs girl turned her gaze to the previously-silent fallen queen. "Of course it's my business. He's my brother."

"Jeeze, Davey, she talks like she's better'n me," Hellie muttered her challenge. "It's not like she's _married_ to Jack Kelly."

Sarah's eyes widened, her jaw going slack. Her mouth gaped for the words she was seeking, but none seemed to enter her mind. In reluctant retreat, she stormed back to her room, slamming the door. David's eyes were studying his girl, impressed.

"There ain't a girl on this earth who likes me," she murmured simply. "I don't see no reason in tryin' to be nice."

David cupped her face in his hands. "I love you. What does that count for?"

She looked at him seriously. "It makes up for everything."


	6. Priam

* * *

_**PRIAM**_

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Jack Kelly slipped into the dark apartment as noiselessly as the door and the floorboards would allow. It was nighttime now--the world was enveloped in black, the stars and moon were shrouded in a perpetually Stygian state. It was much the same way he felt--dark, hidden, endless--like a gaping black hole that led to nowhere, except, perhaps, worse things. Jack didn't want this. He wanted to wake up; wanted this whole hellish day to be no more than a gauzy dream. He _felt_ like he was in a dream--the edges of the day were frayed and giving into evanescence altogether. It would be better that way; if days could simply do that. If those bleak, dooming days could simply fade into nothing and be forgotten. Jack wanted to fall asleep and wake up this morning. He wanted to change the day from the beginning. He would stop David from his outburst, and all would be well. _For how long?_ a pessimistic voice demanded within his head. _How long would it have gone on before Spot would've found out?_ Jack sighed, forlorn, as he unlaced his shoes and kicked them off by the door.

What would have occured instead? Would Spot have happened by a rendevous one night, and killed David in his insane jealousy and hatred? Then what? Jack would have had to avenge his friend. It was his duty. He'd still be in this war. No matter how he chose to look at the alternatives, Jack was in this war regardless of how the events had turned. Maybe this one was most favorable.

No, what would have been favorable was if he would have known about the affair. If David would have told him, he could have come up with a better way to work everything out. Jack wasn't entirely sure what that was, or even if he could've found a way to handle it more appropriately, but he needed an excuse for why he was so helpless now. He wanted so badly to believe his own lies. He wanted to be swallowed up in the black hole of himself.

How could David have been so selfish, so stupid? He was the brains, he had the ideas. He rationalized things, he made stuff work. He was the reason the strike worked at all. He'd gone to school, he'd been raised in a family--a _real_ family; comparatively speaking, he had it all together. He'd been to the synagogue probably hundreds of times in his life; he respected everyone else's dames--why not Spot's? He was polite but never intrusive, trustworthy and morally obligated. Why Hellie Caden? Why Spot Conlon's dame? Why couldn't he have gone and found some innocent immigrant girl--someone he deserved? What was the matter with him? Did he really think they'd get away with it forever?

Jack really hated David right now. Sure, he'd had to intervene in a few fellas' scruples over girls; that was commonplace. But Davey...? And with a ally gangleader's girl? That was just plain stupid. Empty-headed. Ridiculous. No one in Jack's lowest ranks would do something that moronic. They'd just as well put a bullet through their temples. Why...? Because she was beautiful. No, he reconsidered, David was above that. But why, then? For the thrill of getting away with it? For the boost it added to his genius? David was above that, too. He didn't need to be reassured of his brain. Most the time, he forgot it was there, which is to say he just used it automatically; he didn't try to show it off. Davey was a saint; a nice guy, honest, humble, quiet, a little shy...

It was right about then that it hit Jack. Everything David was, Spot wasn't. He'd been trying to figure out David, and he'd forgotten completely about Hellie. She'd left Spot because she admired what David was.

But how could David be everything he seemed to be if he allowed another guy's girl to get to him? That wasn't Davey. He was smarter than that. Jack could figure out what Hellie saw in David, but he couldn't really place what David saw in her without assuming that Davey was shallow. Every fella that saw Hellie wanted her. Even, he thought with a reluctant twinge, Jack Kelly himself. Was that it? Was he just jealous? That was ridiculous. How could he be jealous? He had Sarah. He_ loved_ Sarah. Sarah was his life, his breath, she...she was ill. There came with that such a longing for her previous self, when he had no fear of her falling into hysterics, when she was who she was and her mind was stable. There came such a fear. Such a fear that, one day, the hysterics would take over, and he'd be alone.

A shiver raced up his spine. He needed to...he didn't know what he needed to do. He didn't want to sleep; he didn't want the reassurance that all this was reality. He was still hoping he'd wake up.

Just then, the door of David's room creaked open. It had previously been his parents' room, but now that they were gone...Well, there seemed no reason for him to remain in the living room with his brother. He slipped out cautiously, wearing only his undergarments, closing the door behind him with pain-staking care. He walked across the room to the kitchen, turning the tiny knob that flared the kerosene lamp and illuminated dark room with its sickly light. He glanced into the other room and startled.

"I didn't know you were here," he sighed, opening up the ice box. "I thought you'd be asleep."

Jack shrugged, crossing into the kitchen. "Just got home. Figured you'd be asleep already, too, I guess."

David sighed again, pulling one of the glass bottles of milk. "Couldn't sleep. I'm dead tired, and I can't fall asleep."

His friend glanced away, returning evenly. "I met with the boys."

David looked up, watching him expectantly. "Yeah?"

Jack sighed, jumping to sit on the table. "Well, for one, you wasn't there, and you shoulda been."

The opposite boy avoided his eyes, pouring himself a cup of milk.

"Seein' as how Spot wants a war, and you started it."

The little wooden vessel crashed to the floor, spilling the creamy liquid across the warped wood.

"What?"

Jack shrugged stiffly, staring intently at the milk-splashed floor. "Spot wants a war. He wants his girl back."

David swallowed difficultly, his hand seeking blindly for a rag as his eyes remained fixed on his friend.

"Jack, we can't go to war with Brooklyn--"

"Nice 'a you to consider that now."

David sighed, ringing the rag between his fists thoughtfully. "What are we going to do, then?"

The question was meek, trembling, afraid. This was all his fault. He could feel it. Maybe, maybe the whole affair wasn't his fault, but the war--the war was going to stain _his_ hands. Because he was the one--_David Jacobs_--who challenged Spot Conlon at Tibby's.

"Well, Davey, we're gonna hafta fight it. 'Cause otherwise you and her are gonna die. He wants to kill ya, and you know I won't let that happen."

David sighed in irritation despite himself, muttering bitterly, "Oh, _you_ won't let that happen."

Jack held up his hands sarcastically. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You wanna fight Brooklyn by yourelf? Okay, I won't interfere. It can be you's and them."

His friend looked away dejectedly.

"I ain't lettin' you do this on your own. Ya're gonna hafta kill me to fight this war alone."

David nodded submissively. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this."

"You shouldn'ta opened yah big mouth," Jack retorted, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "You wanna do another guy's girl--fine. But keep yah mouth shut. Brooklyn's our friend, our ally, and now we're at war with 'em. And all 'cause you had to open yah stupid mouth!"

His friend's eyes shot to him evenly. "That's not fair, Jack. You don't understand."

Jack snorted. " 'Course I understand. I used to play the cheatin' card all the time 'til I met Sarah."

"You didn't love anyone until you met Sarah," David returned quietly. Kelly's gaze snapped to his friend, mouth agape. "You _don't_ understand, Jack. You don't know what it's like to see her treated like that. She isn't Spot's property--a lousy trophy. She's a _person_, Jack. A wonderful, beautiful person."

The Manhattan gangleader was studying his friend carefully. Defeated, he allowed his shoulders to drop with a sigh.

" 'Course ya're right," he muttered. David smiled sadly, glancing down again at the mess on the floor. Shrugging, he bent to the warped wood.

"Guess I can clean _this_ up," he murmured sardonically. Jack shook his head. The next mess was gonna be a hell of a lot more trouble.

* * *

_Spot Conlon's Apartment, Brooklyn Territory, 1900_

The King of Brooklyn liked having his own space. He liked the lodging house, but after a while he decided that he'd pick up a joint of his own. It was a one-room apartment: a little cramped, but not complainable. This was the place that he and Hellie lived in. When he was with other girls...that's what his bunk in the boarding house was for. But here he could keep Hellie out of his hair if he had to. He slunk against the head board of his bed, disgusted, wondering to himself if that son of a bitch David Jacobs had spent nights here before. Right here, in _his_ bed, with _his_ girl, in _his_ apartment, on _his_ territory. There was low, and then there was scum. Davey had them both beat.

Mechanically, his hand slid to the bedstand, fingers curling around the cold metal case of his cigarette holder. He slipped one of the white cylinders out, dipping its tip into the yellow tongue of fire that was his only companion. He watched the end incinerate, then brought the opposite side to his mouth, breathing in a drag.

This was stupid. Here he was, the leader of Brooklyn, and he sat alone in an empty apartment, listening to the couple upstairs go at it. What a pair of mooks. What a lousy couple of schmucks. They thought they were in love. Nobody was in love. Nobody loved anybody. There was no such thing as love, only selfish lusts that were fulfilled in a temporary haze of selfless courtesy. People liked to think they were in love; that they'd do anything for someone else. But nobody really felt that way. Nobody.

Spot wasn't going to pretend that he loved Hellie, because he didn't. But he also wasn't going to pretend that he didn't care, because he did. It wasn't just his pride, even if that was a huge part of it. It was the fact that Hellie had belonged to him. Those other girls--they lasted as long as the night, but Hellie...Hellie was supposed to be his through everything. She was like Clue and Flint. Always there, no matter what happened. But Hellie was gone. She'd been stolen from him, and he was going to get her back, because she was his.

He sighed, breathing out a wisp of curling white smoke into the palpable black about him. This wasn't between Brooklyn and Manhattan; it wasn't him and Jack. This was Spot Conlon and David Jacobs. Period. Sure, other fellas would get hurt--maybe even killed. But in the end it would be the two of them, standing before each other to end the war with a single death. A smirk danced its way up Spot's face sadistically--perhaps because of his cold rage, perhaps because of the empty bottle of vodka grasped in his left hand. He could see that rat, trembling in front of him, without the protection Manhattan had provided him; weaponless, disheartened, crestfallen. He could picture the look on his face, and every curve and line of his face would scream with sheer terror.

Spot Conlon smiled broadly now, a low chuckle in his throat.


	7. The Ambush of Achilles and Patroclus

**_THE AMBUSH OF ACHILLES AND PATROCLUS_**

_Back Alley, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"This is stupid."

They'd been walking down the alleyway in silence for some time, and Mush's sudden blunt comment made Kid Blink jump a little at the noise. Sighing, he kicked a can out of his line of passage. Mush shrugged, jamming his hands in his pockets and refused to meet his friend's surprised gaze.

"What's stupid?"

"This war," Mush mumbled back, eyes intent on the gravel beneath his feet. Kid Blink shrugged.

"I don't know. We gotta do somethin', or else Spot'll kill us off."

His friend shook his head in argument. "No. Spot's proud but he ain't stupid. He likes Manhattan, he likes us. It's Davey he wants."

Blink nodded, but his comment disagreed. "Well, yeah, but Davey's our second-in-command. We can't just let Spot kill him."

Mush sighed. "Why not?"

His friend stopped walking, staring at the boxer with mouth agape. Mush stopped, too, and shrugged, explaining himself:

"I like 'im just as much as anybody, but this whole thing ain't worth our lives. Brooklyn fights tough. It's between Davey and Spot--why not let 'em have it out? It's stupid to risk everyone's lives for a girl."

Blink let out a long sigh, trying to gather his thoughts. Nobody wanted a war--nobody ever wants a war. But he was on Manhattan's side on this one. Maybe it was just a natural alliance with the fellas he'd grown up with; maybe it was because he really couldn't blame David all that much for what he did--hell, Blink would've done the same thing if given the opportunity.

"Mush...we gotta do what we gotta do. Even if it is between David and Spot, it's a war. Maybe they was wrong, but we gotta protect what's ours if we wanna keep it, right?"

His friend shrugged. "Sometimes you gotta make sacrifices for the good of everyone else."

"We can't just hand Davey over to Spot, Mush. That ain't right. He's our leader."

"So when he does somethin' stupid he doesn't have to pay for it?" Mush shot back with a bitterness neither he nor Blink had expected. He took a moment to gather himself. He really didn't feel that strongly about it; he just didn't think this whole situation meritted a full-blown war between allies. It was a girl, for the love of God. Spot had hundreds of them, and Davey could've stayed in their territory if he wanted one so bad. Neither one of them had any excuse for what was going on. They were both acting stupid. So Davey fell for her--Spot could _always_ find another, he'd had plenty while he had Hellie. On the other hand, Hellie was Spot's number one girl. David could've found a nice dame in his apartment house instead of chasing after Brooklyn's Queen. The whole thing was, like he'd said, stupid.

Kid Blink let out a long sigh. "We'd do the same thing for you, Mush."

The boxer shook his head, running his tongue over his lip. "I wouldn't let you. If it was me, there wouldn't be no war."

"There wouldn't be no Conlon, neither," Blink retorted. "It's easy for you to see it your way. You could kill any man in New York if you wanted to."

Mush's gaze shot to his friend's with a ferocious intensity burning in the depths of his eyes. "I ain't some monster, Blink. You of all guys know better'n that."

The single-eyed newsie sighed again, nodding in meek understanding. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn'ta said that."

Mush shrugged it off. "Yeah. Forgetta--"

His friend's sudden pause caught Blink's attention. He turned questioningly to his friend. "What?"

The boxer froze, his stance stiff and deffensive. He turned and glanced behind them, then looked ahead. His lips trembled in anticipation, but they did not move to form the words he spoke:

"Get outcha knuckles, Blink."

His brow furrowed, but Kid Blink didn't protest. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and retrieved a set of brass knuckles studded with short, sparkling points. Inconspicuously, he slid the cold metal rings over his fingers while his hand was still consealed within his coat. He felt his body trembling.

"Knife?"

"Justta be safe."

Now the one-eyed newsie's hand slipped into his pants pocket, fingers curling around the cold wooden handle of a retracted blade. A line of four menacing forms appeared before them. He jammed his brassed hand into his other pocket, strolling nonchalantly beside his friend. Mush wasn't armed. Mush never _had _to be armed.

" 'Mornin', gents," a voice called, dripping with mock amiability. Blink felt his stomach liquifiy as he realized that it had come from behind them.

"What brings you fellas to Manhattan?" Mush asked conversationally as he shifted his position. Now he could see all of their assumed attackers clearly. Eight. His own cool surprised him.

Kid Blink felt himself breathing shallowly. He fought desperately to keep his calm. He couldn't let them know he was scared. He had the blade and the brass, right? What did they have? His innards were twisting nervously. They were from _Brooklyn._ Who knew what they had on them!

"Don't you know? We's got us a war!" the apparent leader and thusfar speaker of the party shouted. Mush's eyes were scouting the positions of the gangmembers. They were forming a half-circle, trapping the Manhattaners against a wall.

Mush shrugged. "Unfair odds."

They were snickering. Their leader smirked smugly, "Damn straight."

Kid Blink ran his tongue over his bottom lip, forcing himself to grin impishly. "Lookee here, Mush. Takes eight of 'em to attack a crip."

More snickers. The leader was talking again...

"Word on the street says yah boxer here can take on five guys by himself. Figgered we'd be safe with eight."

"Don't forget you gotta face me when he's through with ya," Blink responded ridiculously.They were closing in.

"You's gonna be dead in about five minutes," the leader retorted harshly. Blink glanced at Mush out of the corner of his eye. He had made a point to have his friend in his line of vision. Any more, it was a natural reaction. His eye came back to flit over the group, focusing on their hands, their feet. He saw their leader's fingers slip into his coat pocket, and Blink whipped his hands out as quickly as his mind sent the message.

The moments that went by seemed to happen at a higher speed than the rest of the earth was moving. Six of the hoods jumped Mush immediately. Blink watched for the split second he was allowed to be sure none had pulled a weapon. They were just trying to get him down for now. He was shocked out of his reverie by the sudden crack of a fist connecting with his jaw. Blink felt the bones shattering, and knew immediately that his attacker had his own set of brass knuckles. He was not bleeding externally though--Painfully, he gathered the thick red liquid to the front of his mouth and spat it out, feeling the rocky bits of his teeth slip passed his lips. He turned quickly to his attacker, who was preparing to send another blow to his face. With all of his strength, Blink's arm flew toward the other boy's gut, the naked blade slicing mercilessly into his stomach. The boy let out a horribly cry, and Blink had to hold fast to his knife to be sure it didn't slip into the depths of the wound. It was not a long cut, but it was deep.

Suddenly, another shocking blow connected with same side of his face. They were striking him where he couldn't see. Blink turned quickly to face his attacker, but there was a look of terrible amazement in his eyes. His jaw dropped, and he turned and ran, tripping over his fear. Dazed, Blink turned his head to see where Mush had been previously. His friend stood trembling, his chest heaving the weight of his breaths. His right eye was swollen, and what was visible of the eyeball was deep red. A long, shallow slash raced up his side as well. Blink glanced away, spitting out another tooth. He could hear a soft, ironic sound. Mush was laughing.

"You look like hell, Blink."

Kid Blink looked up to stare at his friend irritably.His mouth was too full of blood to speak.


	8. The Omens of Cassandra

**_THE OMENS OF CASSANDRA_**

_Spot Conlon's Apartment, Brooklyn Territory, 1900_

The tip of the cigarette incinerated in the golden flame, then drew away. Its color flared a moment, then a wisp of smoke billowed out. The opposite end rest idly between the blood red lips Spot was studying hungrily, his eyes a famished stare as they scanned the rest of her body carefully. She was pretty. Very pretty. Nothing near her sister, but what girl was? The fact of the matter was, she was unsuspectable. If she was smart, she'd stay away from Hellie at all costs, but that was apparently no hard task to fulfill. Rumor had it Jack was hiding Hellie and David somewhere away--some place they weren't allowed to leave. Then she couldn't even be penetrated--well, in one manner of speaking. Spot_ intended_ her to be penetrated, and often, by that damned prize-fighter, Mush.

Word had gotten back in a rather reluctant haste that Manhattan's boxer had single-handedly conquered eight of his men, and Brookies were known for being fighters. That wasn't a good thing. Someone had to distract Mush from fighting--someone had to put him at odds with Jack. And everyone knows the most manipulative creature on earth is the woman.

Spot had spent an entire night mentally surveying his target. Mush was a strong guy, a good-looking guy, a polite guy--yet he could still hold his own. He was a knight in shining armor--the kind of guy girls looked for, and the kind of guy who could have any girl he wanted. This meant Spot's little spy had to be gorgeous, and a hell of a lay if she was going to be able to keep Mush's attention. Crystal Caden was just that sort of girl.

What was most important, though, was that she harbored an intense hatred for her sister. She loathed Hellie. She was jealous--_that_ was obvious--and she wanted to see her destroyed._ It must be hard_, Spot thought,_ to be so pretty and still be in someone else'e shadow._ And that worked perfectly for him.

"I ain't shortin' ya out on no deal," he said finally. "You know that. You seen Mush. You'll do it--for me?"

Her eyes narrowed superiorly as she breathed out another wisp of smoke. "I'm doin' it for _Brooklyn,_ and for me."

_Much better._ If this was personal, she wouldn't screw it up.

Standing, Spot continued. "I want him pussy-whipped, Crys. I want you to lift a finger and him to jump. I don't want him on the streets, if ya can help it. You good enough to do that?"

She snuffed out the cigarette on his bedside table, leaving a dark, circular burn on the worn wood.

"I'm better."

Spot rose an eyebrow. "I ain't takin' your word on that."

Crystal sighed, walking over to his bed and laying down--propping herself up on her elbows so as to talk to him with ease. He smirked, a step ahead of her before she even said the words:

"Then I'll prove it to ya."

He crossed the room, sitting down beside her and taking her chin in his hands. She stared up at him, challenging, and he took it with all the gusto he would use in any other challenge. He kissed her fervently, so that she was panting for breath when he was finished and was forced to wipe the superiority from her features. Spot loved doing that to girls who thought they'd seen it all. He loved giving them a new standard to compare their lovers with. In a moment, though, she had laid her head upon the pillows and pulled his lips upon her own. She was a good kisser, he noted as his hands slid down her sides. For some reason, the thought that he was going to sleep with his girlfriend's sister never registered in his mind.

His lips left hers and slowly began to travel up her jawline to her neck, his fingers still fiddling with her clothing; he figured he could fairly well remove any girl's clothes blindfolded. Her hands had slid the suspender straps from his shoulders and were working on removing his shirt. She kissed his neck, moving her lips up to his ear.

"I could always do _one thing_ better'n her," she murmured, somewhat bitterly. Spot's hands slid away from her bodice, yanking up the skirts of her dress impatiently.

"And that's the one thing I do better'n anyone else."

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

A wretched screetch ripped through the evening. Hellie started fearfully, unintentionally jamming her fingernail into David's shoulder while massaging it. He winced, dropping the book he was reading and glancing across the room at Jack and Les. The former looked worn, beaten, and unprepared for this further burden--the latter, frightened despite the frequency of the occurance. He scooted nonchalantly to his brother's chair and sat down beside his legs, looking fearfully toward his sister's room. All eyes turned to Jack, who stood wearily and started for Sarah's door.

Hellie looked down at her lover in nervous puzzlement.

"What was that?" she inquired carefully. David glanced down at his brother, then back up to her, measuring her ability to believe him.

"My sister's ill, Hellie."

She stared at him, trying to make out a clear meaning from this statement, but he had turned back to his book in determination. His arms were stiff and his eyes focused only on the pages as she waited for an explanation. Sighing, Hellie's hands returned gently to his shoulders, trying to work out the knots he'd just now developed.

"What kinda ill?"

David could feel Les's eyes on him expectantly, though he hadn't the faintest idea how to answer.

"It doesn't matter, Hellie. She just has...spells, that's all. She'll be through in a few days."

Her gaze was still heavy upon his face. "Has she seen a doctor?"

David sighed impatiently, closing his book and raising his eyes to meet hers. "Yes, she has. Can you let it go?"

Hellie shrugged, sliding her hands down his arms soothingly. "Yeah, honey, I can. If you want me to..."

_"Beware the glass girl! She is destruction! Beware the Lady of Glass!"_

Her hands stopped their theraputic running up and down his arms as her eyes turned again to his.

"What kind of sick is she, Davey?" her words were clipped and warned against any beatings about the bush.

_"Glass is our end! Kindred of Beauty, the Lady of Glass is stealthy indeed!"_

David felt a chill run up his spine as he turned reluctantly to his lover. "She was...affected by my parents' deaths. That's all."

"So she yells about glass dames?" Hellie retorted in an icy tone, though her voice quivered uneasily.

Dryly, her lover returned, "No, the glass lady is a first."

Les wrapped his arms around his brother's leg, pressing his ear against his knee to keep the screaming out.

_"As maggots to meat is a beauty to a strong man!"_

Now Hellie left her post behind David's chair and sat down on his lap, clinging to him like a young girl would her father during a storm. Why was he the savior? He had no more answers than they did. It seemed as if they trusted him hollowly--as if they found refuge in the one person that could do nothing.

Sarah was only letting out animalistic screetches now. Her curses were done, and her shrieks were incoherent and raucous to the ear. David closed his eyes, leaning back against the head rest of the chair. Hellie rest her head under his chin and reached her hand down to hold Les's.

Minutes passed. The sounds were wearing away. Slowly, they were reduced to heavy, gasping breaths. Jack creaked open the door and whispered:

"I've gotta stay up with her tonight. Can you manage to stay offa her and keep your brother company?"

Any other night, David would've protested not being there for Les, but he kept silent tonight. He helped his brother to bed before sitting down at the end of the mattress and leaning his head against the wall--his only chance for slumber.

"I'm not sleeping alone," Hellie told him quietly, crawling up beside him. He wasn't going to protest. Tonight was hardly the night for such things.

_As maggots to meat is beauty to a strong man._ Had that been meant for him? He may not have been strong physically, but in other arenas...Sarah was crazy. She wasn't talking about anything.


	9. Beginnings

**_BEGINNINGS_**

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

For hours, it seemed--hours and days and years and eons--David sat awake with only the steady breathing of his brother and his girl as his company. Les was soundly sleeping now, and he could've easily awakened Hellie and moved her and himself into his room, but he simply didn't want to. He didn't want sleep--his mind was still running clearly. His eyes gazed down at Hellie, her head resting peacefully on his chest, legs curled up against his thigh. Her nightgown was hiked up to her knees, revealing her long, lean calves. He stroked the smooth skin thoughtfully, pausing when she let out a quiet moan in her sleep and subconsciously moved her hand down to rest on his navel. He wrapped his arms protectively around her, resting his chin on her crown of loose, silky curls. A quiet smile danced softly upon his lips as he recalled the first time he'd held her. He loved that night...

* * *

_Three Months Earlier _

"Jack, you know this isn't my kind of party," David mumbled cautiously, following behind his friend and sister at a dogged pace. Sarah glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling sweetly.

"C'mon, Davey," she whispered encouragingly as they stepped into the crowded theater hall. "You know these guys--they're your friends."

Her brother managed a half-hearted smile just in time for Spot to come sauntering over with a heavy mug in one hand and his other arm wrapped around the most breath-taking girl David had ever seen. His gaze was fastened on her, and the odd thing was, he couldn't qute convince himself to obey the voice of manners in his head commanding him to stop. He couldn't take his eyes off of her, and he didn't want to. Now she caught his gaze. Why wasn't he blushing and looking away? A faint smile lit her face. He smiled back.

Spot was laughing boisterously--probably from his alcohol intake, not that seeing Jack hadn't enhanced his amusement.

"Jacky! Davey!" he exclaimed obnoxiously. He glanced sidelong at the girl, never one to be oblivious to envious eyes. "What happened to my cigar, baby?"

She held up a thick roll of tobacco to his lips between her long, slender fingers. He breathed a drag, laughing out a cloud of gray smoke.

"Hey, fellas, ya met my girl, Hellie? Gorgeous, huh?"

Sarah eyed Jack curiously. He shrugged, wrapping his arm about his girlfriend. "I got my own gorgeous girl, Spot."

Conlon, for whatever reason, found this incredibly humorous.

"Can never have enough 'a them, Cowboy!" His still-sober friends made a half-hearted attempt at laughing, but Spot paid them no heed. "Hellie, this is Jack Kelly, and that's Davey Jacobs--they practically ran the strike. And this here's Jack's girl Sarah."

Hellie smiled politely, but didn't say a word. Drunkenly, Spot slung his free arm around Jack's shoulders, ignoring the empty mug in his hand. His Manhattan friend winced in pain as the heavy glass met his chest with a thud.

"Drinks on the house, Cowboy!" Conlon shouted jovially. "Go finda table. Hey, hold on there...Davey!"

David paused as Spot released Jack and slung his arm over his shoulders. Just like Cowboy, David's chest got a bruise from the empty mug in Brooklyn's hand. Once he was certain that they were as "in private" as they were going to get, the gangleader whispered loudly:

"There's this girl I'm gettin' tonight. You wanna take Hellie home after a while? You's a trustworthy gent, Davey. A trustworthy...gent."

David nodded politely, starting quickly for the table Jack, Sarah, and Hellie had sat down at.

"Where the hell's my music?!" Spot shouted impatiently. Immediately, a band began to pick up a tune. He grinned enthusiastically, sautering into the writhing crowd in search of his new prize. Awkwardly, David sat down at the table with Jack and the girls.

"Where'd Spot go?" Kelly inquired, noting that his friend was somewhere far off. David shrugged stiffly, a little embarrassed. What was he supposed to say? He's getting a girl? He already _had_ a girl, and she was sitting directly across from Sarah.

"He wanted to talk to someone," the eldest Jacobs boy covered quietly. He could feel a pair of dark, skeptical eyes upon his face. Sheepishly, he looked up. She knew better, but there was a grateful light in her eyes.

Jack took his answer at face value and changed the subject. "Look, I think I'm gonna go around to the Brooklyn crew and talk to some 'a them. I ain't seen 'em since the strike. C'mon, Sarah, I wantcha to meet these guys. Ya comin', Davey?"

David shook his head, avoiding his friend's eyes. He didn't want to see the Brooklyn newsies right now. A horrible anger was rising in his chest. Who did Spot Conlon think he was, anyway? What girl could possibly be worth his time more than this one? He glanced across the table, studying her face discreetly. She had such a beautiful face--high cheekbones, doeish eyes, a delicate nose, sumptuous lips. He gulped. David knew that if he continued down from her lips, down her neck, he'd be in trouble. So he quickly glanced to the table.

"Don't feel sorry for me," she murmured quietly, causing him to jump at the sound. He looked up, finding her endless eyes upon him again. "It's not as bad as it looks."

David let out an embarrassed sigh. He really didn't want to talk about Spot, or her relationship with him. He didn't want to know what sort of lust-for-love compromise they were in. He could go without knowing.

"You don't mind, then?" he asked after a time. She looked away. David yearned for her eyes upon him again.

"It's just...Spot. That's the way he is."

David snorted. He hated excuses that had no standing foundation to them. They were worse than lies, if they were actually true.

"I mean, it hurts, but it don't...you get used to it," she finally managed, looking to him again, eyes begging for him desperately to believe her.

He stared at her steadily. He wasn't sure where his steel nerves had come from, but gutsily he murmured:

"You don't have to lie to me. You can tell me the truth. I won't...I won't tell anybody."

Hellie took a deep breath, her gaze measuring him. "Why do you think I'm lying?"

David shrugged. "Because nobody gets used to it."

Her mouth tightened into a thin line as Hellie Caden looked off, as if staring at something thousands of miles away. Her eyes were glazed with tears, and she blinked them away with a blind persistence. David opened his mouth to appologize, but she stepped in before he could even manage a word:

"Dance with me."

Her hand slid over to his and her fingers curled around it gently. Surprised, David followed her lead and stood, following her to the floor crowded with couples swaying to the soft lull of the saxophone. David had always hated dancing. He was clumbsy and awkward whenever he got too close to a girl, and he could never find the beat. Why was this so natural, then? Why did his hand on her waist and her hand on his shoulder make such perfect sense, and why wasn't he nervous about it in the least? He took her hand in his and began to lead the two of them with the first step.

Moments passed with the sweet, melancholy voice of the instruments the only sound between them. Hellie's arm tightened around his neck, drawing her close against his body. David swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Is this alright?"

She looked up at him, a challenge in her eye. "Is it alright with you?"

He considered this in a moment of serious thought. The question of right and wrong, ironically, never occured to him.

"Yeah."

She shrugged, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Then it's alright."

David looked around the room. Couples were absorbed in each other; there were a few unfortunate souls caught in the arms of someone they'd rather not be with, and he felt as if their eyes were upon him accusingly. What charges were they filing? What was he doing wrong?

"Do you wanna go?" he asked suddenly, his paranoia reaching a peak. She looked up at him curiously.

"What do you mean?"

He leaned down to whisper his warning in her ear. "There are--people here, and...I'm ready to go. Can I take you back to your home?"

Her brow furrowed, and a hurt look passed through her eyes. Sighing, she slid her hand from his shoulder.

"Alright. Let's go."

David wove the two of them through the crowd and out of the building, stepping into the cool night air. Hellie started a brisk walk that her escort struggled to keep up with. When he finally caught up to her, he took a gentle hold of her arm, pulling her to a stop.

"What's the matter?"

Her eyes turned tearfully to his, an irritated anger ringing in her voice. " 'What's the matter'? You just--in there--you just...Is it Spot? Is that what you're worried about? Because I can keep things from him, I have--"

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What are you talking about?"

Her jaw dropped, and a flush of pink brightened her cheeks. "I'm...sorry. I just thought...Nevermind. It's stupid."

David quirked an eyebrow at her. "No, it's not. What did you think?"

Hellie stared up at him, measuring him. He gulped nervously, trying to comprehend why she was looking at him that way. In one swift, sudden moment, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. David was startled, but reluctant to let her go. In contradiction to the spontaniety of her beginning, Hellie was very slow in ending her impulsive kiss. Gently, she pulled out of the embrace, watching him in amusement.

"_That's_ what I thought," she answered quietly. "Is that what you were thinking?"

David coughed, feeling the blood redden his cheeks. "I...I was _thinking_ it; wasn't going to do it..."

A smile lit her face as she embraced him again. Reaching her lips to his ear, she whispered:

"But you'll do it now, won't you?"

Now he was smiling. He felt like such an idiot, grinning at her, but he couldn't help it. They walked giddily into the boarding house. Hellie had been afraid of directing David to her and Spot's apartment; besides, there were plenty of insignificant corners and closets that no one would think to open or pass by. There were easy routes of escape if necessary. Her apartment had none. Moseying down a quiet hall, the couple stole kisses where no moonlight shone through. Hellie felt a laughter bubbling up from her throat every time she touched him. She'd never felt this free around anyone. She felt as if she'd broken out of the gilded prison Spot had kept her in for so long; as though she'd finally broken through the feet of glass and ice that had allowed the world to gawk at her but not to touch. David was touching her now, every time becoming more gutsy in where and for how long.

Hellie halted them as David leaned her up against a wall for a long kiss. Smiling against his lips, she sought the door handle behind her, and let them in.

It was a storage closet--small and conjested, with no light whatsoever to shine in on them. Hellie bumped into a waist-high cabinet and blindly found a way to sit on top of it.

"Where are you?" David whispered in amusement. Hellie couldn't see him, but she could here his movements in the restricted space. Quietly, she pulled up her skirts to rest over her thighs and stretched her legs out in front of her, searching for him with her feet. Her black pointed shoe found his leg almost immediately.

"I'm right here."

He turned at the sound of her voice, taking a gentle hold of her ankle and nearing her slowly, his fingers gracing her legs to stay on balance and in the right direction. Suddenly, his hands graced the wrinkles of gathered satin on her thighs. Staring directly forward, he could hear her breath. She could sense his nearness, too, and slithered an arm around his waist, pulling him right next to her as she edged to the brink of the cabinet's surface. His breath quickened as his hand searched carefully to cup her face, and his lips found hers.

"Are you thinkin' it?" she breathed quietly when he finally ended his kiss. His hands slid down her body, to the knees that flanked his waist, and slipped his fingers underneath the layers of satin. He kissed her a few more times, stalling as he desperately tried to figure out the hooks and buckles in the endless darkness.

"I've never done this before," he admitted quietly. Her lips were trailing down his neck, and she paused, a thought of her boyfriend finally creeping into her mind. For a moment, she reconsidered, imagining his arrogantly handsome face, but the moment passed as she pictured the other girl that was most assuredly in his arms. Spot had treated her like a shining glitz of jewelry--something to show off, but not alone in its use. She felt one of her knickers detatched suddenly, and David's hand wandering further. He found her mouth and kissed her again. Revenge was indeed a sweet action.

David had informed her that never before had he done what he was about to do. Ironically, she whispered:

"Neither have I."


	10. Chryseis and Achilles

_**CHRYSEIS AND ACHILLES**_

_Mickey's Tavern, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"C'mon, seriously, what's under the patch?"

Kid Blink had catered to his date's every whim, with the exception of answering that question. Last night's double outing hadn't gone so well for Mush, but Blink was congratulating himself on winning over the prettier dame, despite his rather unfortunate disposition. Mush just...wasn't all that interested in the buxom little red-head he'd ended up coupling with. Blink didn't understand it. He would have taken that number in a minute--after the sweet little blonde he had sitting across from him, that is.

"I ain't showin' ya," he retorted again, spearing another slice of Polish sausage. She giggled, running a finger over his knuckles suggestively.

"I bet you would for the right price."

Kid Blink cocked his visible eyebrow, measuring her--and himself. If he jumped on it, he'd look like he hardly ever got a girl. If he turned her down, she'd think he wasn't interested in her. Luckily, Blink was rather talented at tap-dancing his way out of no-win situations.

A sensual smirk crawled up his face keenly. "We'll see."

She laughed her charming, alcohol-induced giggle and swallowed a petite bite of saurkraut. Blink chuckled darkly as well, his eye wandering out to the dance floor. Pollock Jim was tending bar tonight, which meant that his nephew and his penniless friends would be beating out raucaus tunes on their Eastern European instruments. The floor was already full. Suddenly, his hawk-like gaze caught something he had not been expecting. He nearly choked in his surprise.

"Hey, Bambi--you recognize that guy out there?"

Her lovely green eyes squinted in conspicuous scrutiny. "Ain't that the fella Trixie went out with the other night--with us?"

Kid Blink nodded slowly, eye transfixed. "That's Mush. You recognize the blonde he's with?"

Bambi shrugged. "Don't think so. Should I?"

Now her date shrugged, turning back to his plate. "Just wonderin'. Pretty little thing."

Her eyes narrowed accusingly. "What'd you say?"

He looked up, watching her in puzzlement. "Nothin'."

The blonde shook her head. Despite its apparent emptiness, the girl didn't seem prepared to let the subject drop.

"No, you said somethin'."

Kid Blink's brow furrowed, even still befuddled. "I said, 'just wonderin'.'"

"And somethin' else," she added insistantly. He shook his head, taking another slice from his link of sausage. Sighing in defeat, Bambi's innocent emerald gaze turned back to where her date had been staring. That good-looking boxer was smiling, and that pretty blonde was whispering something in his ear. Bambi could feel her temper rising. Something always ignited her jealously about a girl who was equal to her in beauty. She could accept with ease a girl uglier, or one much smarter--but a girl who was as pretty--or prettier than her...Bambi could hardly stand it. Now Blink's eye was wandering lazily back to the couple. Without hardly thinking, she leaned over the spance of the table and fused her mouth to the inch of exposed skin just below his jaw. She felt his muscles flex beneath her tongue in surprise, but slowly settle back.

"I ain't showin' ya what's under the eyepatch," he muttered sardonically, lifting his fingertips to brush her cheekbone.

"Then show me what's under everythin' else," she retorted, lifting her lips from him for breath.

If Kid Blink would have been able to read the rather simple thoughts of his sudden lover, perhaps the glance he cast at Mush for a final time would have been one of gratitude. But once again, it was only a look of interest as Bambi dragged him up the stairs.

Perhaps Mush would have noticed Blink looking at him, too. But he was too absorbed in his own golden-haired prized. The girl was lovely, clever, virginal, and her name was Crystal Smith, she'd said. He thought it was pretty. He thought all of her was pretty, like a green valley in pictures he had seen, where he imagined that no man had ever before wandered. That was Crystal Smith to him, in a moment. From the time she moseyed shyly across the room and stood blushing before him, asking for a dance, to now, when she twirled in his arms about the room to the beats of the Polish polka.

There was something amazingly...fresh about her, like she was caught up in a boy's arms for the first time. It was as if she viewed every venture he took as a new experience, and prevented him from nothing while retaining her rosy newness. When he held her closer, she did not object, but her breath quickened in excitement. Every foreign movement, she did with grace--shyly sliding her arm about his neck, pressing her body nearer. She did everything with the slightest hint of a question, as if afraid he might not comply. These quiet, subtle actions were such that Mush barely recognized how intimately they were dancing at all.

Everthing had fallen into place so perfectly. And then, when the petals of her soft lips brushed lightly against his own, nothing felt unusual. Mush didn't feel as if he was diving into a heat of passion; instead, every sweet embrace was like a placid stroll through a garden in spring. He felt calm, and collected, and natural in her arms. He felt like Adam in the Garden of Eden before sin ravaged the earth--like the first man with the first woman alone in eternal paradise.

Their bodies had ceased to sway. They stood before each other, now, with arms clasped about each other and lips engaged for a moment of tranquil beauty. It was the first time Mush had viewed being with a woman as a beautiful moment of solitude. Any other girl, and he would be thinking up the best innuendos to utilize in describing his night to the guys. But Crystal was different. She felt...sacred almost. Like a bride. _His_ bride. Gently he took her hand, glancing toward the stairs.

A virgin's smile lit her face with the traces of a blush, and she cast her eyes down serenely as she followed him through the crowd, their hands linked with fingers laced.

A chilling wind was picking up outside the golden windows of Mickey's Tavern: a foreboding, mourning wind, that howled like a painful woe. The unfortunate loiterers outside tried desparately to hold conversation, before surrendering to the warmth of the bar. They were weary of shouting above the frantic zephyr. Whatever they were saying, matters no more. Words are often twisted by such fractions of sound, and an innocent passer-by might have mistaken the fated verse as _"beware the lady of glass ..." _but it was too soon whipped from his ears.


	11. Helen and Priam

* * *

_**HELEN AND PRIAM**_

_Manhattan Lodging House, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

A hushed fear whispered through the levels of bunks. Silent, hissed rumors. Somewhere--they didn't know where--Skittery lay waiting for the doctor to arrive. He'd been ambushed--beaten badly. Somebody said he was unconcious; somebody else said he'd be dead by morning, _if _that damned doc didn't get here in time. Everybody wanted someone to blame; it had to be somebody's fault.

"Why didn't you go with him, Snitch?"

"Me? He said he was waitin' around for Mush."

"Where was Mush?"

"Where else? With his dame."

"Where's that frickin' doc?!"

The conversation would settle to a tense quiet. The very air they breathed in was twisted and difficult. They would wait, minutes passing as the silence screamed wretched, raucous cries. Then, finally, someone would no longer be able to withstand the lack of sound, and make a comment, or pose a question:

"How bad was he?"

"Bad, real bad."

"He gonna die?"

"Damnit, Crutch, don't say stuff like that!"

"Well he might, won't he?"

"Just shut the fuck up. What if it was you's in there?"

"I'm sorry, Blink. I'm sorry."

Then the conversation would mute again, only to resurrect itself for the sake of sanity.

"Snoddy went for the doc and hour ago."

"Jack mighta borrowed 'im. I heard Sarah's off again."

"That's shit. Jack knows Sarah don't need no doc--not more'n Skit does, anyway. Doesn't he?"

"I dunno, Race. He loves that girl."

"So what's that mean? I get the shit knocked outta me in some alleyway, and I'll die on account 'a their dames, too?"

"Shut up, Jake. We fightin' for Manhattan, not over some lousy dames."

"If you say so, chief."

"You wantin' me to give you's a face like mine, Jakey-boy? One eye and a busted jaw?"

"I'm sorry, Blink. I'm sorry."

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"Lookee here, doc, I ain't takin' her to no shrink. There's a boy dyin' down at the Lodging House--go see him."

The older man rose his brow in response to the newsboy's command. "That girl is dreadfully ill. Demented. If you don't get her to a psychiatrist, I'll take her myself."

Jack Kelly brought himself to his full height and glared the doctor in the eye. "If you don't get to that damned lodging house, I'm gonna give you somethin'_ another_ doc'll have to take care of."

The opposite man's eyes widened in insult, and he snapped up his little black bag to leave. "I'll be here for the girl in the morning. I could hear her screaming from outside of the building."

Jack scowled at him, shoving the doctor out the door. Heaving a dark sigh, he threw himself into the armchair beside him and began massaging his temple in an effort to coax the migraine out of his head. When Snoddy had come and told him about Skittery's ambush, Jack sent him out to get a physician as quickly as possible. Just as Jack was heading out of the apartment to see how Skit was doing at the Lodging House, Sarah went into hysterics. And it would, of course, happen that the good doctor should be passing by in the middle of her tantrum, and demand immediately to be let into the building and up the floors and into the apartment. The doc gave the girl some sedatives, and she was sleeping. Heaven forbid that be all--Doc thought he had to tell Jack what to do about her, when the man was _supposed_ to be at the Lodging House, saving Skittery.

And, on top of everything else, Cowboy had been left to manage all of this virtually on his own. It wasn't that he couldn't handle it--he'd handled wars before--it was just that he couldn't handle _all_ of it by himself. That's where Davey was _supposed to_ come in. Not that he had. David really couldn't be allowed outside of the apartment because his life was atstake, and Spot couldn't know where he was. But the Mouth could at least help in some strategy...or something. But, hell, what's more interesting? Coming up with a plot to end the war, or screwing the beautiful girl also trapped in the apartment with him?

Les had opted for living at the Lodging House. It took Jack a while, but eventually he agreed. He'd get sick of those two, too, so he couldn't really blame the young boy. Les shared a bunk with Boots and some of the other younger newsies. He was probably about as safe as he would ever be. Spot wasn't likely to try and use Les against them. Spot had a reputation of fighting tough to defend; kidnapping David's younger brother and using him against Manhattan would be a dirty powerplay, and that just wasn't Spot's style.

Leaning back against the warn upholstery, Jack allowed his eyelids to flutter shut. He needed to get to the Lodging House--he really did. But he needed a moment to himself, too. Heaving a sigh, he revelled in the silence, allowing a peace to course through his tensed nerves and muscles. Pure, tranquil quiet was all about him...

Until he heard the creaking of a door behind him opening. Irritably, he forced his eyes open, startled to see Hellie creep out ofher and David's room. With painstaking care, she crossed the room to the little couch beside Jack's chair, and almost startled out of her prepared silence when she caught sight of the form sitting there. Jack glanced away, embarrassment softly staining his cheeks. She hadn't expected anyone to be here still, and so she had approached the couch with her hair a mess and sporting only David's shirt as a covering.

"Sorry, I didn't know you was here. I heard the door close, and I thought--"

Jack let out a sigh, focusing his gaze on the floorboards. He heard her sit down and adjust her sparce clothing awkwardly.

"What's going on?" she asked quietly, tugging at a thread in the hem of the sleeve.

The Manhattan leader refused to look her way. "One 'a my boys got hurt bad."

Silence.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she returned finally. Jack could feel her dark eyes transfixed upon him. It made him uncomfortable, and he worked at his collar."You don't like me much, do ya?"

He shrugged wordlessly.

"Why's that?"

Jack snorted, picking at the embroidery on the chair. "You got me into a war with Brooklyn."

"No I didn't," she returned evenly. "David did."

"And if you hadn't been lettin' him stick you, he wouldn'ta done that."

He could hear the smirk in her voice as she retorted provocatively:

"He's good at it."

Jack didn't fight the grimace that contorted his features. "Don't say shit like that around me. I don't wanna think about it."

She laughed at his disgust, leaning against the back of the couch. "I think you're afraid 'a me."

Cowboy couldn't stop himself from whipping around to stare at her in shock. Now he wished he hadn't. That shirt of Davey's wasn't doing a very good job of covering her up. He tried to rip his gaze away, but he couldn't. Her eyes were upon him in a look of pure superiority.

"You _are _afraid of me. You're afraid of what I make you want."

Jack snorted. "You're a cocky little shrew, ain'tcha?"

Hellie shrugged. "Kelly, I've had to deal with...how guys feel about me since I was twelve years old. I can't afford to be innocent, or be in denial, 'else I'll end up raped, or killed outta jealousy. It ain't cocky when you's protectin' yourself."

"You're safe around me," he finally murmured, returning his eyes to the floor.

She shook her head. "No, I ain't. If I got up right now, and I took this shirt off and kissed you, you'd be on me in a second."

His eyes flashed dangerously back to hers. "I ain't an animal."

"No," she retorted, a fire burning in the depths of her dark orbs. "You's a man, and ya got eyes. That's twice as bad as bein' an animal."

Jack stood furiously, starting for the door. "You make me sick."

She cocked her head to the side, reloading and firing back. "I make you want me."

Grabbing his coat, the Manhattan gangleader flung open the front door. "I don' know what the hell Davey sees in you."

She stared him down, holding his gaze. "You know exactly what he sees in me."

Jack cocked an eyebrow, standing in the doorway. "Ain'tcha personality."

He chose this as an ending statement, and slammed the door shut. Just as the harsh sound snapped through the apartment, David's door opened, and he stood in the doorway, yawning and puzzled.

"What was that all about?"

His lover shrugged. "Can't come to terms with himself."


	12. The Council of Priam

**_THE COUNCIL OF PRIAM_**

_Manhattan Lodging House, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"Mush! Where the hell've you been?" Kid Blink hissed as his friend slinked into the lobby, soaking wet and panting. He looked away, trying to gather his ragged breath--he'd been running since Bottle Alley.

"Crys--stal's," he choked out, a chill running up his spine. Blink's eye widened.

"Damnit," he muttered, scratching his head. "That's not gonna look good."

Mush's brow furrowed. "Why's that?"

His single-eyed friend refused to meet his expectant, puzzled gaze. With a ruthless sigh, he whispered:

"Skit's dead."

The fine, chiselled jaw of the prizefighter unhinged, and his mouth gaped wordlessly with trembling lips. Slowly, the shock equalized through his bloodstream, and he managed to hoarsely choke:

"He was s'posed to wait..."

Blink cleared his throat, still unable to look his closest friend in the eye. "Yeah, well he didn't."

"Bastard," Mush breathed, though his curse was not for Skittery. He could have just as easily muttered "damnit" or "fuck;" both were racing through his mind. He could feel all of his nerves giving way, and his body trembling violently. His teeth fought to restrain the quaking of his bottom lip, but could do no such thing. Firmly, Blink took hold of his shoulders and forced him to stare into his single, determined eye.

"This ain'tcha fault, Mush," he stated sternly. "It _ain't_. If that damn doc woulda been here when he was s'posed to, none 'a this woulda happened."

A cautious tranquility rippled in the depths of the boxer's dark eyes. Slowly, "Where was the doc?"

Mush felt Blink's fingers dig into his shoulders authoratatively. Rarely did the cyclops newsie exercise any upper hand on his friend--he never had any reason (for one thing, he wasn't an idiot)--but this time, he chose to instruct Mush:

"Ya're gonna be angry, so put a cap on it right now, alright? It was the doc's fault he wasn't there on time, alright?"

Mush's steel masculinity had fought off his previous submission, and he gritted his teeth coldly:

"Where was the doc, Blink."

It was a command, not a question. And suddenly, Kid Blink was back in his place as second-at-arms.

"He was seein' to Sarah."

A smoldering fire errupted in the depths of the prizefighter's eyes, and Blink's stomach dropped sickeningly at his admission. He knew this was how Mush would react. He knew exactly what he would say afterwords, too:

"This is a goddamn war! Kelly knows better'n that! Where is he?!"

Blink let out a long sigh, glancing up the stairs to the bunks. "He's havin' a meetin', Mush. I was waitin' for ya. Now you're here, we can start. Don't look so fuckin' upset. He's boss, Mush. We'll work it out right--just give him the chance."

His friend gritted his teeth, but nodded solemnly. Even so, nary had they taken a step and Mush pulled his friend to a jerking hault:

"Just so you knows, Blink, I ain't gonna roll over and let this pass. My God, Skit's _dead!"_ he exclaimed suddenly. He ran a rough hand through his hair and glanced up at the stairway. Mechanically, he started up the steps, Kid Blink following defeatedly behind.

They opened the door to the bunk room to find the beds crawling with newsies. A hundred voices were buzzing with a hundred different ideas on the one subject occupying every mind, and the noise did not let up even as their late party entered into the room. Jack Kelly sat on his old bunk, his handsome features drawn and strained, making him appear years older. The shadows created by the sickly kerosene light served to deepen the pits of his cheeks, and sink his eyes deeper into his face, so that he should look like tired and worn skeleton. Kid Blink refused his dismal gaze and simply muttered:

"He's here."

Jack nodded sullenly, and allowed his eyelids to drop momentarily before shouting, his voice hoarse and rusted:

"Ah'right, _shut up!"_

Slowly, the chatter subsided. Their leader looked about the room, his posture as slouched and informal as if he were about to begin a normal conversation on the weather, or the headlines, but his face was grim. His elbows rest on his spread knees, hands clasped before him as if in prayer.

A stunning quiet settled over the room. Then Jack began to talk:

"As you's all heard, Skittery died, somewheres about..." He glanced at Racetrack, posing the question, "A half hour ago?"

"Closer fourty-five minutes, Cowboy," the aspiring bookie corrected quietly. Jack sighed.

"We need to figure out what it is we's gonna do. Skits was a damn good newsie, and I known him since I came to the Lodgin' House." Again, his eyes wandered towards Racetrack, then to Bumlets and a few of the others. "Some 'a you's longer. He was with us durin' the strike, and he stuck by us even when they come at us with everything they got. He been good in this war here--took out--how many was it?"

"Three," Bumlets supplied in a mumbling tone.

"Right, three. He took out three 'a them Brookies 'fore they got a chance to nail him. We need to hit 'em back hard, but we need a plan."

"Where's Davey?" it was Mush, and the intrepidation of his words could easily be described as venomous. "He's the thinkin' one."

Jack met his friend with cold, stone-like eyes, and returned warningly: "Davey ain't here. He can't leave the hidin' place. So it's up to us. What're we gonna do about Skittery?"

"Are we aimin' for a person or a place?" Crutchy asked suddenly. Jack shrugged.

"That's what we're gonna decide, I s'pose."

This instigated a thoughtful silence, allowing each his time to think on the subject. Where to strike Brooklyn? Where would it hurt the most? Sure, they had managed to soak a few Brookies, and the Brookies had managed to soak a few of them. But Skits was the first guy to die. And not only that--Skits had been there during the strike--he was close to those involved, and he was a damn good fighter, too. Killing Skittery was not like killing a no name. His death had made a statement.

"How's about one of their heads? Flint or Clue?" Pie Eater suggested suddenly, all eyes immediately upon him at the sound of his voice.

Jack shook his head. "Can't get to 'em. They're as locked up as Davey and Hellie."

"Yeah, about that," Mush's voice cut in coldly. Cowboy glanced up at the sound, and allowed an inaudible, weary exhale before giving his long-time bunkmate the go-ahead. "I got word says the doc was delayed with yah girl, Jack."

The leader's eyes may have flashed, had he the fire still burning to allot him, but instead they gleamed in dull anger.

"Couldn't be helped, Mush. The man was a jackass. I mean, he wanted to take Sarah to the nuthouse," Jack explained, forcing a laugh.

Slowly, the prizefighter stood, taking this in. "Maybe that ain't such a bad idea."

A hoarse, anticipating whisper meandered through the gathering, and soon the room buzzed. Mush demanded silence with a single look, and Jack stared at him in manevolent disbelief:

"What the hell's that s'posed to mean?"

"I'm serious," the boxer stated carefully. "Just hear me out, alright? Jack's got a lot to worry about--and that screamin' dame ain't any help on yah nerves..."

"I can handle it, Mush," Cowboy warned. But his friend continued:

"If you woulda put her in a hospital before, Skits would still be alive."

Again, murmurs began to fill the room. Jack Kelly looked all about him, eyes like stone, though his mind quaked with the horror of nodding heads and affirmative grunts. He shook his head ridiculingly.

"I ain't puttin' her in no asylum."

"Why not?" Race piped up, slightly on the offensive. "Wouldn't be forever, Jack. And--let's face it--yah brain ain't in this war, all due respect. We's gonna lose if you don't do somethin' for yah own good...and for ours."

Some "yeahs" echoed Race's statement, and Mush again took the center stage:

"Jack, you know how I feel about this war here. I ain't gonna lie--I think it's worthless. But if we're gonna fight, we sure as hell better not be half-assin' it. This ain't no two-bit gang from the Battery--we're fightin' Brooklyn. Now you gotta do _somethin_'."

Another chorus of agreements. Cowboy hung his head in defeat for a long time. Thunder rolled outside--it had been raining all week. Somewhere in that monotonous rumble, he heard his own doom. Lifting his head slowly, he stared Mush directly in the eye:

"And what would you say, suh, if I took yah dame away? That there Crystal you's with all the time."

The boxer's brow furrowed in insult. "Crystal--she ain't interferin' on my ability to do my job, Jack."

The opposite boy allowed a cold smirk to crawl up the sides of his face, tipping his head back.

"That ain't what I been hearin'."

A trembling buzz. Every eye turned expectantly to Mush, whose visage was a portrait of genuine surprise. He glanced about the room accusingly, discovering (rather quickly) that Kid Blink refused to meet his gaze. Shocked disbelief hit his gut in an icy blow. Suddenly, it felt as if everything in the world he knew had turned against him. It felt as if his whole life in the Lodging House, as a newsie, had been some horrible, ugly lie. And he suddenly felt very ill.

"I don't got to stand for this," he muttered, voice trembling. Jack allowed himself a sarcastic sigh:

"Whatcha gonna do? Run out on Manhattan?"

Something in Mush desired to hit Jack Kelly, but something else restrained him. He knew the right way to win a fight. And he knew that backing off, even temporarily, served as a loss in one way or another.

"You're damn straight that's what I'm doin'. I don't need you fellas, and I certainly don't need the_ great Jack Kelly_, neither. Don't mean to sound like a jackass, but I do hope Brooklyn soaks you's good. Maybe then you'll figure out that a dame ain't worth our lives."

And with his statement sharpened to a glistening, stinging point, Mush left the bunk room in confident stride. He was free. Why, then, did he feel suddenly so trapped?

Within the room, an awkward silence crept in. No one spoke, but everyone's mind was reeling. Where were they, without Mush? He was the prizefighter; no newsie in New York could beat him. And they were fighting Brooklyn, for the love of God! They couldn't...without Mush, they couldn't...

"Fuck," Jack hissed under his breath, staring intently down at the floor. Racetrack looked up suddenly, and his voice was meek in asking:

"So, about Sarah..."

"Let's vote," Blink cut in coldly, his eye still trained on the closed door that his closest friend had retreated from. Their leader nodded solemnly. He knew how the vote would turn out even before Kid Blink had suggested it. He trudged out of the Lodging House, guilt and anger burning in his veins. Sarah would be gone in the morning.


	13. Helen

* * *

_**HELEN**_

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Jack leaned wearily against the wall, staring down the length of the narrow, dark passage that would lead him back to his home, as it were. He wasn't sure what to do. He really didn't feel like moving. When it came down to it, he was afraid of facing the reality of Sarah--still in her room, but in an asylum by tomorrow afternoon. He allowed his eyelids to drop heavily. This was a nightmare. A big, freaking, endless, hellish nightmare, and he was awake.

He had no desire to go into the apartment for the sickening irony of it, too. Leaning against this wall, in the utter loneliness of the tenement hallway, he wouldn't have to slip into the empty living room, with the moans and sighs and screams from the bedroom echoing into his ears like some sort of demon taunt. Nobody could possibly have any idea how he'd longed to silence those sounds. How often he had contemplated handing Hellie over to Spot, just to end it. Not just the mocking noises of love-making, but all of it. This war, this hell. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this feeling of absolute helplessness. He was the leader, but he was trapped with no other option but to continue further in his descent.

Sighing, Jack's eyes moved to the end of the hallway, where a rotting door leaned on its hinges much in the same way he was leaning now. A bath. It sounded like heaven. He would go to the bath closet and sink into the luke warm water and let himself go. Hell, maybe he'd be lucky and fall asleep and drown. With a new energy, he trudged to the door with only a glance at the apartment's numbers. His calloused fingers curled around the rusted knob, turning it with a creak and pushing it open. A startled gasp greeted him.

It was only a split second - only the time it took for the message of his mind to command his eyes to squeeze shut. But he saw enough in that fraction of time. The slender arms hanging over the sides of the cracked tub; the narrow, shapely shoulders that were the foundation for the lovely throat--the smooth, creamy skin dotted with droplets of water and the collection of steam. It was very warm, he realized suddenly. Jack began to rub his eyelids with his fingers, trying to force her perfect image from his brain. Somewhere, in the vague haze, he remembered it was Monday, and the landlord always refilled the tub on Monday. That's why it was so damned hot.

"Don'tcha know how to lock a door?" he demanded irritably, refusing to open his eyes.

"I thought it _was_ locked," her voice came through the darkness. Jack let out a vexed sigh.

"God, you're stupid," he muttered angrily. "Imagine it hadn't been me--you need to be more freaking careful!"

He could hear her breath quiver with something in the way of haughtiness. Calmly, "And you don't know how to knock?"

Instinctively, Jack's eyes snapped open, and he was staring into her endless, smoldering eyes. Her head was cocked to the side with her challenge, and one of her thin, dark eyebrows was quirked. She looked like a queen, he noted vaguely, and wished he hadn't. She had pulled her mass of wavy, dark hair up with a comb, but a few tresses had escaped and clung to her moist neck, slipping down into the water...

He swallowed, shaking his head vigorously. He had to go. He had to leave this steaming room, with its barely-luminous kerosene light, and this beautiful, enigmatic, arrogant...

"Well?"

Jack's brow furrowed in irritation at her superiority. Suddenly, her allure lost its luster. Suddenly, he desperately wanted to land a fist in that fine, delicate jaw.

"Least I can lock a door," he retorted. "And I don't gotta worry about what I do to fellas."

Hellie only laughed. A musical, charming laugh, Jack couldn't help but notice.

"I'm gettin' to you."

An explosion, wrought of malice and jealousy and spite and weariness and anger and hurt and excrutiating pain burst in his chest at that smooth, sweet remark. A serene, goddess smile tilted her lips in a Mona Lisa smirk. She was taunting him, intentionally provoking him. He saw her serpentine soul in her doe's eyes. She enjoyed making him furious; she made sport of his irritation and usurped ego. His eyes narrowed in a dangerous smirk, and he watched the divine superiority go out like the flame of a candle in her gaze. He took a step towards the tub, and he heard her suck in a tiny breath.

"It's awful warm in here," he commented, loosening his handkerchief and throwing to the ground. Her eyes widened, on the brink of fear, before regressing back to arrogance.

"Ya're hilarious, Jack," Hellie retorted, deadpan. The light in his eyes intensified in a dangerous flash. He could hear the words she had intended, _Ya're too self-glorious, Jack. You wouldn't make a move on me 'cause you think you're better'n that. _Maybe he was, and maybe he did, but even kings step off of their egos.

Even now, his gaze bored into hers. He watched their light shift back into fear as his finger trailed down the front of his shirt, pushing the buttons out of their threadbare loops. In the silence he could hear her trembling breath.

"Don't," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "Jack, I's only..."

He pulled his arms from the sleeves, throwing the wrinkled cotton to the floor.

"David," she choked hoarsely, glancing at the door. Her voice seemed unwilling to raise in volume. "David..."

Jack squatted down, his eyes now level with hers. Her lips were trembling as he rest his crossed arms on the brim of the tub, resting his chin on the defined muscle of his forearm. His smirk was bemused as he stared at her, and his eyes danced like a child who had just won a game of marbles. His finger dropped to the water's surface, lethargically pacing in a circular motion. Her eyes dropped warily to the benign ripples. Suddenly, they were turned back to his gaze as he took her chin in his hand.

"You think yah ass is so damn high."

Her breath trembled on his skin. "Jack, you don't wanna..."

His brow rose in a feign of amazement; his mocking served to drain any color left in her lovely face. "But you said yourself: every fella in New York wants to do _you_."

"Sarah..." It was her next attempt at salvation, and he felt his grief travel up his throat in a sickening fury. He forced her lips against his own, his fingers grappling to the nape of her neck to tilt her head more suitably. He felt her fingertips press hard into his arms, the needles of her fingernails digging into his skin. He ignored the tiny shoots of pain and wrapped his strong arm across her shoulders, bringing her body against his own. She was breathing quick, fearful exhales against the side of his face, but he made himself apathetic to them and threw his knee over the wall of the tub. The hot water seeped into his pants, and he could feel the nervous, shuddering flesh of her thighs flanking him.

Finally, his mouth left hers for air, and he fully expected her to scream frantically for her lover. Indeed, her mouth gaped--gasping for oxygen, no doubt--but no sound, intelligeable or incoherent, passed her open lips. Jack brought his other leg into the tub now, and he stared superiorly down at the queen. She met his eyes, and a new sort of arrogance kindled in them. She leaned her head against the curved lip of the porcelain.

"Do it then, ya worthless bastard," she murmured, and he felt her legs spread defiantly from his thigh. "You ain't no better'n Spot. Screw me like a fucking whore. But you might as well know now, Jacky-Boy. You ain't never gonna make me scream. You's a fucking pig, you hear me? You and the rest of 'em."

He stared at her, mouth agape in surprise as he struggled to maintain his breath. He felt his rigid muscles suddenly go slack with exhaustion, and with more difficulty than should have taken, he climbed out of the bathtub, water sopping onto the moldy floor. He felt her eyes upon him, shock glittering clearly in the dim room. Jack attempted to swallow, but his tongue stuck to the dry insides of his mouth. Sighing, he allowed his body to collapse against the wall. Her eyes were still on him as he rest his arms on his knees and buried his head down. She was still staring when he began to sob, his whole body shaking with the bitterness of knowing himself in the full horror of what he had become. She was too frightened to get out of the bathtub.

"What the hell do I got left?" he demanded furiously, his plea muffled by his tears. "They're takin' her tomorrow, my men hate me, my best fighter's gone, and I just...I just...I just about...ah, _hell!_ What do I got left anyhow?"

Hellie only stared at him, shaking. She had no answers. And even if she had, she was too utterly afraid of Jack Kelly to say anything at all.


	14. Paris

* * *

_**PARIS**_

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"Jack, we've got to talk."

The Manhattan gangleader glanced at David upon hearing his name, grateful to be distracted from the gruel in front of him. It was worse than what they ate at the Lodging House, but it took less brainpower to make than a lot of the other food they could have had. Hellie wasn't exactly a master chef. Her talents, apparently, were limited to one room, and (unfortunately for Jack) that room was not the kitchen.

Jack's eyes turned questioningly from David to his friend's girl, but Hellie refused to meet his eyes. She stood wordlessly, picking up her plate and carrying it to the sink. With a sigh, she strode into her room. David's eyes followed her with a rather obvious longing, and Jack snorted in ridicule. He hadn't hardly taken the time to get off her since she came; didn't they get bored after a while? Maybe, Jack rationalized, they really weren't too good at conversing. Maybe sex was the only activity they had in common. Wouldn't that take it all. They were in a war with Brooklyn not because David loved Hellie, but because he was getting laid. Wouldn't that just be his luck.

But no, of course not. David had to be more noble than that. David really had to love her. It was obvious. It wasn't in the way he touched her, or the way he screamed her name--any two idiots can share that kind of intimacy. No, it was in the way he looked at her. The way his eyes followed her around the room, like she was an angel. It was the way he spoke to her--soft, and patient, and caring. It was the way he said her name when the three of them just sat in conversation--not that it happened often. Jack imagined that David probably sat up at night and watched her sleep, tracing her jawline with the tip of his finger to be sure she didn't wake up. David was definitely in love.

As soon as the door fully hid her beauty from him, David turned back to Jack, letting out a ruthless sigh. The Manhattan leader could feel his innards going to mush; he really hoped this wasn't about what he thought it was about.

"I don't think I can take this anymore, Jack."

His friend looked at him, puzzled. "What's that?"

David swallowed, leaning back in his chair. "This whole...war. I know you said you wouldn't let me fight this on my own, but...God, Jack. How long was it going to be before you told me that Skittery died?"

Jack gaped for the words he wanted, but before he found them, his friend was continuing:

"This is all my fault, and...I know you want to protect me and all, but...how am I supposed to live with myself if another guy dies? Another guy I was friends with?"

Jack stared down at the table, tracing the grain of wood and refusing David's expectant gaze. Lamely:

"How did you know Skits died?"

Without looking up, he knew that David's face was a mask of irritation. "Snoddy told me. That night he brought the doctor, he said Skittery would die if the wait was too long. That's not the point, Jack. My point is, I want to end this."

Jack sighed, his eyes wandering for a moment towards the door of Sarah's old room. Doc had already picked her up earlier that morning. As if the day hadn't sent enough swift kicks to his groin, here he had David deciding he wanted to get in on the war--_now_, of all times.

"How ya wanna do that?" he asked, his voice edging toward mockery. He could feel David's eyes hardening against him.

"I'm going to challenge Spot. For the right of Hellie."

Jack's gaze shot up to meet the decision-confident eyes. "And when you lie there on yah back with blood dripping outta God knows where, you'll let him take her away?"

His friend glanced down, gnawing nervously on his lip for a moment. Finally, "It's got to end, Jack. I started this mess, and I'll end it."

Jack let out a weary sigh. He had to hand it to him; David had guts. It was apparent they had taken the place of his brain, but he had guts.

"You _could_ avoid dying and just send her back," the Manhattan leader offered quietly, the slightest hint of sarcasm tinting his voice. His second-in-command stared at him seriously:

"I can't live without her. Either way, I win."

Jack's eyes flashed dangerously. What the hell was he talking about? What the hell was the matter with him?

"You think dyin' is winnin', Davey-boy? Tell me, didja ever see a guy die?"

David met his gaze. "I saw my father--"

Jack rolled his eyes angrily. He could feel his fury growing by the second. "I don't mean sick. I don't mean peaceful. I mean after getting the shit kicked out of him--broken and bleedin', with no face left. I mean fucking unconsious with the other guy still hitting 'im, with the sound 'a his breathin' loud enough for the whole fucking alley to hear. With the dogs and the rats gnawin' off his fingers and draggin' him into the dumpster. Ya ever see _that?"_

His friend looked away, his Adam's apple jerking. "No."

The Manhattan gangleader exhaled shortly, giving himself a moment to regain his composure. Slowly, his breathing leveled, and he couldn't allow his eyes to rest upon David. He knew that if he did, he would see his best friend in that alleyway, fitting the gory description he had just painted.

"Then ya never seen death," he stated quietly, staring aimlessly at the rug on the floor.

A silence that was much too lulling for its character passed over a few minutes, leaving the pair in an awkward, thoughtless silence. Finally, as if his action had been delayed, David spoke again:

"Is that the way Skittery died?"

Jack ran his tongue over his dry, chapped lips. He knew where David was going with this.

"Yeah," he allowed reluctantly. "He was pretty bad off."

No use in lying, after all.

David's echoing sigh was much too reckless, considering his naivety. "Better me than another one of them."

Jack could not control the fire that errupted in his gaze. Angrily, he slammed his palm against the table, his face setting into a scowl. His friend jumped at the noise, his eyes wide and questioning like a child's.

"Shut up, Davey. Shut the fuck up. You're so freaking stupid, you know that? You think dyin' is somethin' noble--well it's not, alright? Maybe it is in all those candy-ass books you read, but in New York -on the streets, nobody dies a hero, alright? You die too fucking young with nobody to remember ya. Do you want that? Do you _really_ think you want that? Because a month from now, nobody'll remember you was even here. Nobody'll say, 'Thank God for Davey - what a saint!' _That's_ dyin' in New York City, David. Welcome to the Big Apple."

David swallowed. His friend's intense eyes watched carefully for his reaction, and Jack Kelly was not one to miss the oldest Jacobs boy's slight trembling. He was trying to keep a control on his emotions. He was trying to take in what Jack had said without offense. That was David, after all. Heaven forbid he fly off the handle and hit a guy.

"I'm not...I'm not doing this for me, Jack. I know you think I am...I know you think this is about being noble and all, but...I don't care, I guess. I just want Spot to recieve the message. If you won't get it done, I'll go to the Lodging House and--"

"Don't bother," Jack intervened, standing wearily. He shifted his gaze nonchalantly to the clock. "I gotta go anyhow. Just stay here; Spot'll get the message. It's prob'ly your last day." He glanced sarcastically at David's bedroom door and snorted. "Go enjoy yourself. Not that you been restrainin' yourself any."

David looked away, color tinting his cheeks. Jack couldn't avoid the roll of his eyes. What? It wasn't like the walls were sound-proof.

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

It was dark when Jack stepped into the apartment. It was nearly September, and the days were already getting shorter. He was just about sick of struggling through the dark living room to get to his room, only to flop down on his bed and sleep dreamlessly. He wasn't even tired; not right now. Or perhaps he _was_ tired, and his exhaustion was simply too heavy to cure with sleep. Besides, Sarah's last words from that very morning were still echoing eerily in his head ...

_"The end is nigh! Ah, bittersweet! A death is avenged, a friend is righted! Ah, the end is nigh!"_

Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. He didn't like it, but Jack had to admit--it was nice to know that he would not have the extra burden of Sarah's sub-sane crazes awaiting him when he got home from the Lodging House. "Ah, bittersweet!" was right.

Opening the door, Jack nearly knocked over a tip-toing form. His eyes met the bewildered, dark gaze of the two eyes he had been avoiding since he woke up.

"What the hell're you doin'?" he demanded gruffly, looking past her to his room. She allowed a silence as she gathered herself, then attempted to brush passed him. Irritated, Jack took her by the arm and jerked her back into his line of vision. As if he didn't have enough to deal with...

She yanked her arm from his grasp in disgust, eyes narrowing into something like a dangerous glare. Ha, dangerous. Sure.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that. What the hell're you doin'?" Jack repeated, his tone buried deep in pits of ice and malice. Hellie set her jaw superiorly. "Tell me, damnit."

She turned up her nose. "Or you'll what? Rape me?"

Jack's eyes burned, sending her nervously back into her previously-adapted fear of him. "I'd much rather break your neck. What're ya sneakin' around for? Where's Davey?"

Hellie swallowed, submissing reluctantly. "Bathing. I...I'm givin' myself up to Spot."

His jaw unhinged in shock. He couldn't help the delay of his reaction: "You're _what?"_

She met his eyes calmly. "I'm givin' myself up. He'll kill David, Jack. I got to--"

"He'll kill _you_," Jack reminded evenly. Hellie looked away. Finally, her voice rose in meek answer:

"I know that."

The Manhattan leader let out a sigh. "So far, I ain't been impressed by you, Miss Caden. I still ain't seen what's so great about you, anyhow. You're selfish, and ya think you're God's gift to the world--since when are you noble, too?"

A tranquility diffused into her gaze and she met his eyes evenly. There was a sort of royal reservation in those dark depths that seemed honest and real, even to Jack.

"I love him," she responded simply.

"Yes, thank you, Juliet. Now what're you really doin'?"

Hellie sighed, her visage hardening again with spite. "You wouldn't understand. You wouldn't even want to, just 'cause you hate me--"

Jack cocked his head to the side evenly. "As I recall, you don't much like me, neither."

She stared at him with mundane, deadpan sarcasm. "Dear God, I wonder why?"

He snorted insult. _Touche. Hey, wait a sec-- _

"Why didn't you tell Dave about...?"

Hellie ran her tongue over her lips vaguely, plastering her gaze to some anonymous object across the room. Taking a deep breath, she set her ego momentarily aside.

"Because then he'd get pissed at you, and wanna leave, and we'd both be dead. He..._I..._I need you, Jack. Just to stay alive, to keep David alive...I need you." Having allowed him his momentary shock, she looked him in the eye again. "You's the one thing standin' between us and Spot, and now Davey...now he wants to challenge Spot for me and...I won't let him die, Jack. You can't make me stay here."

Again, she tried to push passed him, and again Jack blocked her exit with the muscular mass of his body. She felt the momentary barrier of his chest, his arms spread to cover the distance his lithe torso could not. For that moment--much longer than either would have consciously intended--they were touching, and their eyes met, breaths mingling in uneasy heat. Hellie's lips quivered nervously, and she took a cautious step back.

"I hate you, Jack," she whispered, as if attempting to reassure herself. He nodded, eyes wide with his own shock.

"I--I hate you, too. A lot. You damned dirty bitch," yet his words felt hollow as they rolled doubtfully from his mouth. Hellie took a deep breath, and attempted to take hold of the doorknob. Jack grasped her wrist firmly.

"Get into that damn bedroom," he commanded tersely, jerking his head toward the room she and David shared. She eyed him suspiciously, but he would not look at her. He was staring off into the room, and his fingers loosened on her joint mechanically. "Make him feel like a god."

Hellie took another step backs, gazing vainly at the door. Fearfully, she looked the king of Manhattan in the eye again, and he was surprised at how easily he met her gaze.

"Do you believe in God, Jack?"

He reached into his vest pocket, procuring a cigarette to gnaw on nervously. "I used to believe in a lotta things."

She nodded, shifting her weight uneasily. "Me, too," she whispered. "Me, too..."

Her voice faded into nothing and she and turned away, taking slow, graceful steps to her bedroom. In a moment, she disappeared behind the door. With a sigh, Jack crossed the room to the coffee table, finding the box of matches. He lit his cigarette idly, flopping down on the sofa. His hand wandered into his vest pocket again, and he pulled out an uneven scrap of paper. It was in Spot's handwriting:

_"Tell the bastard I'll be waiting tomorrow for him at the lot by your Lodging House."_

Short and to the point. That phrase alone fit the Brooklyn leader to a tee. Jack wondered at the correct spelling of every word; Spot must have had a dozen newsies flipping through papers to find them, just so he wouldn't be wrong. That was Spot, too. A sharp pang made him wince suddenly. He'd forgotten how much he liked Spot, and how much he missed him.

It was at that thought that David walked into the apartment, mechanically locking the door behind him. Jack looked up, feeling the slightest bit of unease. He could see the future before him--saw the only clear way this would turn out. Tomorrow, Spot would kill David, end his life just as he wanted to. Then Jack would have to hand Hellie over, knowing that she'd be killed, too. Or would she? She wasn't an idiot--she was too caniving and manipulative to be an idiot. Maybe she'd get Spot to forgive her. Then what? Things would go on as usual? Of course not. David would be dead. And he and Spot would never really...well, things just wouldn't be the same. And Hellie...just there, about five minutes ago...what the hell _was_ that, anyway? And what would that lead to, if Spot let her live?

"Did you send the message?" David's voice shook him out of his wonderings.

"Yeah. He says he'll meetcha tomorrow. The lot. You sure you wanna do this?"

The Jacobs' boy nodded solemnly. "I have to, Jack."

The Manhattan leader was not going to argue with him. Sighing, Jack decided to head down to the Lodging House. Maybe Race was setting up a poker game, or something. He just couldn't stay here.

David walked into his room before Jack could change his mind and manage a protest. Closing the door behind him, he allowed himself a weary sigh, massaging his temples against the pain settling into them. He glanced across the room, surprised to find Hellie already laying there.

"Are you asleep?" he asked quietly. She sat up, smiling serenely.

"How the hell can I be tired enough yet?" she retorted suggestively, tilting her head with a vixen air. He smirked, feeling some of his stress begin to flow out of his muscles. She was a miracle, he knew it. Collapsing onto the bed, he rest his head on her thigh, closing his eyes in extasy. He could hear her musical laugh echo him as her fingers began to weave through the damp locks of his hair, straying lackidasically down his neck, over his shoulders. _Oh,_ he loved her. A sickening pang ripped through his body suddenly. He was going to die tomorrow. He turned his eyes to hers guiltily.

"I...I love you, Hellie. You know that, right? That I love you more than...more than anything I have, or anyone I know. I--"

A finger trailed to his lips peacefully. "Shh. I know, David. And I love you."

He sat up, looking her seriously eye to eye. "I...I might die tomorrow. This...Hellie, this might be the last night that you...and I..."

She silenced him with a deep, poignant kiss. She could feel her soul collapsing inside, her heart going down in an explosion of flame. Her whole body was trembling, and tears wanted so badly to burn pathetic paths down her cheeks, but she refused them, lacing her fingers over the nape of his neck. Slowly, she pulled her lips from his, curling her knees beneath her to sit on her calves. He stared into her eyes expectantly, and she wanted only to weep and weep and weep...

"Then let's make it worth rememberin'," she whispered, her voice cracking in her throat. A guilt was caught in her chest--the guilt of looking, of thinking about Jack Kelly in such a way...but she pushed her sins away and kissed him again. His hands had slid down her back, and in a single, gentle motion he pushed her against the mattress. She wanted to cry with every touch of his lips, with the knowledge that they could (and most probably would) be the last; wanted to wail with the precarious balance of his body over hers.

She didn't, though.

For his sake, she made herself ecstatic, and pleasured, but her soul was shattered and her heart no more. He didn't get it. He could see plainly enough that his own death was before him. The ended life he didn't see was hers.


	15. Paris Faces Menelaus

_**PARIS FACES MENELAUS**_

_Spot Conlon's Apartment, Brooklyn Territory, 1900_

Through the pane of glass in dire need of washing, the heat of the sun gently caressed the burnished, youthful face engaged in peaceful slumber. It was the first time the sun had shone her glittering face in a week of gray and dismal rain, and he counted it a good sign as his mind awoke beneath his closed eyelids. Spot Conlon took in a deep breath of contentment. Today was a beautiful day. Today, all things would be settled. Today, he would kill David Jacobs.

He allowed a soft, pleasant smile to pull at the corners of his mouth as he slowly opened his eyes. He stared in satisfaction at his ceiling, his mind drifting back into the night and his smile darkening suggestively into a smirk. His lips parted for a moment as he sucked in a gust of the morning air, enigmatic blue eyes entranced by the glittering dust particles streaming down towards him. His chest rose with a deep breath, and a trickle of adrenaline began to swim through his veins. He knew that he should be much more tired and stiff than he was, but he counted it to his fortune that he was not.

He heard a soft, waking moan to his right. He turned his head carefully, watching as the pair of dark green eyes opened sleepily. The lovely face they were set in sighed, and a smile began to creep upon those sensuous lips. Spot lifted a hand to caress her soft, golden curls, and she brought her lips forward to meet his in greeting.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," she whispered softly, her eyes glinting playfully. He smirked at her, revelling in her worship. He turned gently to lay on his side and face her, his fingers trailing her face softly.

"I expect to see you there," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. She nodded submissively.

"How could I miss it, Spot?"

He was about to procure a smart retort, but he felt movement to his other side at that moment. He glanced curiously over his shoulder, and connected with a set of sapphire eyes that stared with the slightest accusation despite their sub-consious state. A set of slender, olive fingers rest on his bicep plaintively as the body inclined herself to lounge on her side.

"Didn't hafta turn away from me like that," she muttered, her voice slightly hoarse from its waking. Spot sighed, still watching her from the view gained by his craned neck.

"You was sleepin'," he retorted; he was, after all, the king. He could do whatever he damn well pleased, especially in his own bed.

She sighed, pressing her lips against his shoulder, a few black strainds of hair brushing against his skin. He smirked, reaching back to cup the nape of her neck in his hand and pull her lips onto his own. In a moment, he could feel the warmth of the blonde's lips upon his neck. Laying in satisfaction upon his back now, Spot ended his kiss and announced:

"Everythin' goes back to normal today."

His pair groaned, and he allowed a scowl to darken his features. The raven-haired girl went first, seeing as how she was the more finicky:

"That means Trigger gets back, and he'll be wantin' me again."

"Yeah," the blonde agreed, "and you'll get Hellie. I hates that bitch."

Spot rolled his eyes in irritation. "_You_ watch what you say about Hellie. I don't care what she is, she's my girl, and I's the only one who can call her a bitch, or anythin' else. And _you_ sure as hell better lay back and take it from Trigger--he's my best fighter and a damn good newsie to boot."

Their expressions darkened slightly with the rebuke, but they opted intelligently to say nothing. Satisfied, the king of Brooklyn sat up, listening to the vertebrae in his back pop.

"Now get up. If you's wasn't so beautiful, I'd screw up yah faces somethin' awful just to stop that whinin'."

The blonde sighed, nowhere near gutsy enough to repeat her black-haired counterpart in a snort. Lucky for her, Spot was too absorbed in the coming day to hear her. He took another deep breath, barely disguising the smile that wanted to stretch over his face. He liked the girls' spats and complaints - mostly because he liked putting them back in their places again. If they were totally obedient, he would have bored of them a long time ago. He released his inhale in a hearty sigh. Yes, today would be a wonderful day.

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"Please, baby, just one more time before you go..."

To Hellie Caden, it was a morning eerily like the one that began this whole borough dispute, and it made her heart ache with irony. She clung to her lover's arm, trying to ignore the rather irritated sighs that were escaping his throat. He was trying to tie his shoes, but the task was not easily being accomplished with one hand. His eyes turned with strained patience to hers, but softened instantly upon looking into those pleading, glazed depths. With a ruthless sigh, David released the laces and kissed her reassuringly, but her lips were relentless. Even after he had ended the embrace, she kissed the side of his face and his neck, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and back. He lifted his hand to gently push her away, but his fingers graced the soft flesh of her bosom, and gave in, standing so that he could lean down and kiss her comfortably. Forgetting himself momentarily, he allowed her to pull him down on top of her, not being able to resist the urge to caress her perfect body.

About the time he realized her fingers were unbuttoning his pants, David came to terms with reality, and reluctantly ceased to engage in the heaven of her lips.

"We can't do this. I've got to go..."

Her arms were desperate around his neck, and her voice strained with tears. "Make the bastard wait."

He snorted, gently disentangling himself from her slender limbs. "I've got to meet Spot, Hellie."

"Fuck Spot," she muttered around a heavy, choking sob. David ran his tongue over her lips, finding himself unable to be free of her body clinging desperately to his. "Don't leave me," she pleaded in his ear, her tears slipping onto his cheeks.

He held her, wanting with all his heart to comfort her. His fingertips ran up and down her back lethargically, calmly. His voice repeated in a gutteral whisper that everything would be fine. That everything was going to be alright.

"I love you," he reassured in his sincere, quiet tone. She gasped for her shallow breath.

"Then stay with me," she choked back, her breathing ragged and torn. David swallowed difficultly.

Slowly, he whispered, "Tell me you love me."

She struggled to regain her voice.

"Please tell me, Hellie."

The sweet, melancholy murmur: "I love you, David. I'll love you until the day I die."

His muscles relaxed, and he released her gently, amazed at the loosening of her grasp. Carefully, he slid from her arms and looked down at her, her face covered by her lovely, tapered hands. He watched the pitiful form--naked, tear-stained, broken--and for a moment considered forgetting the ridiculous meeting with Spot and let this war pan out its own time. But it was only a moment, for her head lifted suddenly, and her tears were gone. The evidence of their streaming paths still remained, but no droplets fled her eyes. She sat up, her shoulders straight and her eyes strangely tranquil as she met his.

"Do what you think you gotta, then," she whispered clearly, and an odd sort of light flashed in the calm, dark depths of her defeated eyes. "But don't think for one second you's doin' this for me."

To her surprise (and, in a way, to his), David responded rather plainly with, "I'm _not_ doing this for you."

Her expression did not alter, but her shock was apparent in her eyes. He nodded affirmatively, explaining:

"I started this war. I'm going to end it, one way or the other."

The tranquility that had manifested itself in her suddenly was showing signs of wear now. With a strained control, Hellie asked uneasily:

"Then you would risk handing me over to him." She swallowed difficultly, her eyes glinting with something like accusation. "Do you got any idea what he's gonna do to me?"

David felt his throat tighten. He wasn't sure what to say. He loved Hellie, he did; and he didn't want her back in Spot's arms, but...he didn't want another newsie to die, either. It wasn't Skittery's concern, yet he had been killed because of it, anyway. Better that he, David Jacobs, die with the hellish knowledge of his girl returning to Spot than have another innocent friend lose his life. _We knew the consequence when we took the risk,_ a voice whispered through his mind. He would drink from this cup--it had his name inscribed on it.

He took her by the shoulders, staring seriously into her eyes. "I'm not going to let another guy die for me. You don't feel any guilt at all for the fellas who have been killed because of us?"

Her lips pursed in hard consideration, and her gaze turned from him in thought. It was a short moment before she looked at him again.

"No. No, I don't, Davey. Because I'd rather have a thousand guys die than you. I don't give a damn who got killed, ah'right? You's the only thing I care about, and ever'thin' else can go to hell for all I care. They all seen me like a picture or some other pretty thing, but you...you's the only guy who ever wanted to know who I was. You're different, David, and I can't...I just can't live without you."

For a moment, she believed that she had converted him. For a moment, his lips were over hers, and the soft warmth of his mouth served to reassure and relax her. But it was only a moment, and then he had detatched himself from her and told her in a tone much more confident than he was:

"I _will_ come back. I swear I will."

Hellie nodded difficultly, finding it hard to hold his gaze. He squeezed her shoulders as if to reassure her, though it was rather obviously for himself. Then David was gone; out the door and off to the lot. She stared at the closed door for a long moment, her fingertips brushing over her lips thoughtfully. In a hoarse whisper, she spoke to the thin air as if he still stood before her:

"Just don't come back in a casket."

* * *

_Racetrack's Boxing Ring, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Despite his rather delayed start, David still arrived at the lot before Spot. He noticed first the anticipating throng, and he felt a burning malice force its way out of his nose in a snort. This was sick. What kind of people gathered to watch youths battling to the death? His eyes scanned the anxious faces: Kid Blink, Racetrack, Pie-Eater, Bumlets, Crutchy, Jake...where was Skitter--oh. A fearful affliction ripped at his innards, and David found himself doubled over in pain. He wanted to vomit; his nerves were shot. Quickly, he struggled to stand again, meeting the skeptical eyes of Jack. The leader of Manhattan was coming towards him...

"Just like 'im to be late; makes 'im feel important," Kelly murmured with an attempt at lightness. David forced a smile, shrugging his stiff shoulders. He lowered his voice to a serious whisper, "You sure ya're up to this?"

David's eyes flashed offensively. "Yeah, Jack, I can handle it."

The king of Manhattan held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just checkin'. Ah, hey. Here's the devil himself."

David looked up reluctantly at the nearing crowd of Brookies, and felt his stomach knot. Suddenly the reassurance he had given to Hellie was gone. Suddenly he wasn't so sure he could keep his promise to her.

"Jack if I--if...you'll tell her, won't you? And you'll make sure she's alright? I know you don't like her much, but just...and Spot...you won't let anything...you won't let him--"

He felt his friend's hands grip his shoulders firmly, and was forced to stare into the intense depths of Jack Kelly's eyes.

"You listen up, alright? Stop thinkin' about her. I want the only thing on your mind to be your fists, and his."

David nodded slowly, turning his gaze to Spot. He looked much too triumphant for someone who had not even begun the fight yet. The Brooklyn leader held up his hand and motioned for the Manhattan mind to join him in the ring. His smirk mocked Jack:

"I can take it from here, Cowboy!"

There was a resounding snicker from the Brooklyn gathering. David swallowed nervously and walked trembling from Jack's side. It was about that time that the Manhattan leader did something he hadn't done since he had run away from the orphanage: he crossed himself and said a prayer.

David stepped cautiously onto the sandy floor of the ring, and he felt suddenly very alone. All about him, surrounding him, were newsies and their girls; faces he did not even know, all as a bland, unidentifiable blur. His eyes were intently trained on the dust beneath his shoes. He could not get enough breath, so he opened his mouth and sucked in air between his quivering lips. His eyelids dropped for a moment of concentration.

_"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..."_

No one could catch the words mumbled beneath his breath. He glanced up now, watching as Spot unlaced his shoes and kicked them off, that smirk ever-present on his youthful face. David swallowed and reached down to untie his own shoes.

_"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside still waters..."_

Spot threw his cap down and pushed his suspenders off his shoulders, working his fingers nimbly down the front of his shirt. With trembling hands, David began to do the same.

_"...gently restoring my soul..."_

The first thing--the most noticeable thing--about Spot was that, while his face did not betray his age, his body and build did. Without his shirt, he ceased to appear so diminitive and youthful; his muscles rippled maturely beneath his bronze skin as he stepped up to the middle of the ring and stood akimbo, harsh blue gaze focused solely on his prey.

_" ...And yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil..."_

David swallowed in an attempt at regaining composure and strode to face his foe. Spot nodded in a mocking of friendly greeting.

"Nice seein' you again, Davey."

The Manhattan boy nodded wordlessly, watching as Brooklyn aimed a wad of spit into his palm and held it out. Not knowing what else to do, David reached to grasp it, but Spot slid his hand away before his fingers could grip the calloused hand. A laugh rose up from the Brooklyn crowd as their leader wiped his hand on his pants and spit his disgust at David's feet.

"Lousy stinkin' bastard," he muttered loudly enough to be sure both sides heard. The Manhattan newsie let out a plaintive sigh.

"Don't keep this up, Spot..."

The Brooklyn king cocked his head to the side curiously. "Keep what up, Davey-boy? You _wanna _be gettin' to your funeral? I was just gonna allow you's some last words, too..."

David's gaze hardened in irritation as he allowed his wounded ego to take reign:

"I was just wondering what you're procrastinating for...But, hey, maybe what I've heard about your fighting is just a rumor," he shrugged nonchalantly. "Wouldn't surprise me. Everyone said you were the best thing a girl could ask for in bed, but you couldn't even satisfy your own girlfriend. She had to come to me."

Spot's fury flared, and his fist clocked back and released with all the power of his defined arm, striking the taller boy squarely in the jaw. David hadn't even had the time to react, and felt his body collide painfully with the hard, dusty ground below. He could hear the crowd, but he could not make out what they were saying. He struggled dazedly to lift himself up, opening and closing his mouth to feel the pain rush through the joints and hinges in his jaw. Suddenly, a small, hardened fist connected with his ribs, and he looked up to find Spot's foot--toes curled protectively inward--prodding him.

_"Get up!_ Get up, ya spineless sonuvabitch! You think you's a real big man, Mouth?! Get up and hit me, damn it!"

David pulled himself painfully to his feet, his fingers curling into his palms. He stared into the manevolent, stormy blue eyes that burned with such a hate, such a malice, for him. He could not fathom being hated to this extent. He could not understand being so scorned.

_"...for Thou art with me..."_

"What was that?" Spot demanded harshly. The Mouth watched him with stony eyes, hardly considering his action as he sent a fist flying at the youthful face. Brooklyn turned his head slightly, deflecting the brunt of the hit, but taking a bruising blow just beneath his eye. David was amazed at the dull pain coarsing through his hand. Somewhere around the time he realized Spot's counterattacking blow was aimed at his gut, one of Newton's laws rationalized his wonderings: _"To every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction."_ The explanation was lost, however, in the swarm of pain in his mind as he doubled over from the hit. Bile crawled up his throat, and he struggled to swallow it down again. The shorter boy sent another shocking blow to his side and sent him to the ground again.

David scrambled to get to his feet again, but Spot's nimble, undamaged body leaped onto his stomach and held him in place, delivering his fist again and again to his face.

"Was the bitch worth it, Davey? Was she worth it?"

The harsh, mocking phrase seemed to repeat over and over in his blood-hazed mind. David coughed difficultly between blows, gathering the saliva and bile and snot and blood from the back of his throat to the front of his mouth. Spot paused a moment, rubbing his knuckles thoughtfully, and the Mouth aimed the wad of fluids at the leader of Brooklyn. He wasn't sure when it hit, or where, but Spot jumped off of him suddenly, profanities trailing out of his mouth. David let his head rest in the dust, allowing his eyes to close.

"Get me my cane!"

The words seemed wrapped in gauze and fog. His lips quivered painfully.

_"...Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me..."_

"What are you? Deaf? Get me my fucking cane!"

There was a heavy weight upon his throat, and David struggled for breath difficultly. The last thing he knew, before his world darkened into the inky depths of black, was a sharp, heavy, pulsing pain to his temple. Somewhere, the crevices of his mind finished the verse:

_"...You prepare a place for me in the presence of my enemies. You annoint my head with oil. My cup overflows..."_

* * *

_**Note:** If you didn't already know (just to give credit), David was reciting Psalm 23. I found it fitting, since it may or may not have been written by King David (Biblical scholars don't all agree on who wrote it, I guess). _


	16. Priam Stands Between

_**PRIAM STANDS BETWEEN**_

_Racetrack's Boxing Ring, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

The next hour had twenty minutes to strike, and the sun was vengefully scourging the earth. After days of entrapment behind the foggy veils of clouds, the hot rays of light enjoyed stretching their fingers over the mortal bodies of men. A glittering thread of illumination sped to the metallic knob that tipped Spot Conlon's infamous cane, refracting in the heavy brass and glinting white in the eyes of on-lookers. The notorious leader of Brooklyn had paused, and light slid down the cane, touching the bronzed knuckles suggestively. His fingertips slipped anxiously on the smooth wood, leaving a thin, evaporating trail of sweat. The ray now curled about his wrist, sliding with the beads of perspiration down the tensed forearms and flexed bicep muscles. It pressed its palms against his chest, traced the definition in his abdomen, kissed his shoulders.

Spot Conlon had taken a moment, and took in a deep breath. His cane raised high above his head, his eyes glittered mercilessly down at his victim. His toes twitched anxiously; he put a little more pressure on the throat beneath his dusty foot. There was no stir; then a cough--faint and pathetic. A crooked little smirk danced on Brooklyn's lips, and his followers watched on with sick anticipation. He could feel every eye upon him, every breath drawn in waiting for his next motion. It gave him an odd sort of satisfaction, being the center of attention. Then, as if their gazes had been a warm blanket, he felt them dragged off. His eyes snapped immediately to this enigma that had turned the spotlight from him. This thing, this phenomenon, was Jack Kelly.

King of Manhattan.

Cowboy.

And he was walking towards him at a brisk, strangely commanding pace. A glint of question lit Spot's eyes as they came to meet the powerful gaze. He could hear the whispers wondering what was happening; what was going on? Brooklyn himself was having trouble making sense of it, and his shock was apparent in his utter lack of response as Jack's hand curled on the famed cane, still raised high above his head.

Spot's brow furrowed hazily, as if he was just now waking from a deep slumber. He eyed his friend suspiciously, his grip tightening possessively on the staff.

"What're you doin', Cowboy?"

Jack gently pushed forward, forcing Spot in his semi-balanced position to step off of David. The unconsious body of the Walking Mouth lay between them in a manner a deeper mind might nearly consider symbolic. Spot stared at his friend, an accusation awakening in his fiercely blue eyes. Offensively, he tugged his cane from Jack's grasp, dropping his arm lazily to his side. The Manhattan leader took a deep breath, and began to unbutton his vest.

"Jack--"

Without looking up, he threw his vest to the ground and started to work on his shirt.

"I'm fightin' you, Spot," he responded conversationally.

Brooklyn's eyes widened in wonder. "Jack, that ain't part 'a the deal..."

Cowboy shrugged, the motion of his shoulders throwing the clothing from his back. Spot pursed his lips in reservation, watching his friend loosen the laces of one shoe while balancing precariously on his other foot.

"Is this some kinda joke?"

Jack threw his other shoe off to the side and finally met Spot's eyes.

"I ain't never been more serious than right now, Brooklyn."

Spot's mouth gaped wordlessly for a moment, and he found a commonality in that with the crowd. Silence; then whispers began to surface. Whispers that grew to curious conversation, and curious conversation that was silenced by Spot's raised hand.

"This ain't about us, Jack."

The Manhattan newsboy shook his head seriously, refusing to say a word.

"He wanted to fight me for Hellie. He's pretty near lost--"

Dark snickers. Everyone knew Spot never allowed an adversary to live through a beating.

"What'd I say, Spot? I can't letcha kill him. This is me and you."

His friend took this in, and shrugged reasonably. "Alright. Nobody said Brooklyn couldn't strike a deal. Davey lives--you give me Hellie; we end this war."

Jack swallowed difficultly, glancing at the Manhattaners watching on hopefully. His eyes traveled all about the crowd - gangmembers, newsies, girlfriends...kids. They were just a bunch of...kids. And suddenly Jack Kelly felt very old. He glanced down at the person that lay as the boundary betwixt Brooklyn and Manhattan, studied the dried, cracking blood and liquidy clouts collected upon the slightly parted lips and around the softly quivering nostrils. His gaze travelled difficulty down the dust-caked neck; the trembling chest and ribs red with pain and growing shades of purple and black. He shuddered, almost undectably, at the shining, swollen eye, and the slight, unnatural indention of the jaw. And then Jack Kelly began to feel something completely different. His horror began to give way to rage and vegence, allowing a dark, hazy purpose to creep poisonously into his veins.

"No, Spot," he muttered. "You pushed it too far for that now."

Gently, he stepped over the limp boy, glaring manevolently downward at his long-time ally. Spot did not back down, even when their furious, heaving chests were only inches from each other. With his signature Kelly smirk, Jack gave Spot Conlon a threatening little shove. Brooklyn's mouth gaped, and his balled fist took a swing at Cowboy's head. Jack ducked out of the way, sending an inevitable punch to Spot's gut. The shorter newsie took the blow with a mere, slight wince before taking another shot at his friend's face. This time, his fist connected, and Jack's head reeled back; he did not fall.

Kid Blink glanced sidelong at Racetrack, his single eye rather wide in wonder and question.

"What do we do, Race?"

The bookie shrugged, allowing himself a humorless, sarcastic:

"I wish I'da known it was comin'. Some odds on this one."

Crutchy smacked him in irritation. "This ain't somethin' to be jokin' on, Race! What're we gonna do?"

Racetrack strained a smile, a cynical irony leeking through his stretched lips. "Tell ya what, Crutch. You go in there and ask 'em what to do. Tell me how that goes."

Blink chuckled despite himself, turning his gaze indifferently back to the fight. Race was right; what could they do? Next to Mush (and supposedly Spot's man, Trigger, though it had yet to be proven for sure), Spot and Jack were the best fighters on the New York streets. He wiped his brow, glaring his irritation at the sun.

"Had to be hot, didn't it?"

* * *

_New York City Institute for the Mentally Ill, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"Dr. Bryant! Dr. Bryant!"

The shrill, echoing voice of Nurse Hawthorne bounced off of the linoleum hallway with urgent foreboding. The doctor she struggled to call, Lon Bryant, glanced up from the file he was studying, a look of unworried tranquility slung with an air of boredom upon his experienced face. He appeared much older than he was--and even for that, his features were more youthful than his superiors. Psychology was a taxing study, indeed.

"Yes, Nurse Hawthorne? What's the emergency?"

The jolting gait of the woman paused before him, and she struggled difficultly for her breath. She was getting too old for this running about.

"That girl--Ward 16; she's off again. Hysterics, sir!"

The doctor's brow furrowed in dark accusation. "Nurse, were you perhaps neglecting your duties to her sedations?"

Hawthorne scowled at him, her irritation apparent. She may have not had a fancy Ph.D, but she was old enough to be the man's mother, for goodness sakes. She deserved a little respect, did she not? And a little acknowledgement for her line of work, perhaps?

"Of course I sedated her, Doctor. I have been with this Institution for twenty-two years; I _don't_ neglect my duties!"

Dr. Bryant nodded blandly. She had obviously not sedated the girl.

"Morphine, Nurse Hawthorne. She'll be fine."

Yet the woman's next interjection stopped the younger man's detatched train of thought and managed to drain the color from his over-aged face.

"We've done that already! Twice!"

The doctor took in a quick breath, starting at that brisk pace that so characterizes persons of the medical field. He glanced sidelong at the older woman as she struggled to keep up.

"Ward 16?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Hysterics? Yelling, screaming?"

"Yes."

"What this time?"

Hawthorne's plump, aged legs slowed to a halt as she leaned against the wall for breath. Somewhere far-off, a patient let out a cry, and a shuffle of feet followed. She turned her eyes to the doctor and swallowed, gasping in air.

"Sorry...these old legs..." she mumbled appologetically. Then, "She kept screaming about a fight. She didn't want him to die."

Bryant's eyebrows furrowed curiously. "Didn't want who to die?"

The nurse looked down the hall a moment, her mouth slightly agape with her own wonder. Taking a deep breath, she looked to the doctor again.

"She said...she said she didn't want Troy to die."

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

The clicking, creaking sound of metal turning in a rusted setting caught her attention, and Hellie's eyes turned expectantly to the twisting doorknob. Her breath caught difficultly, and her gaze focused intently on the door, feeling her heart rise up in her throat. She could feel the air trembling out of her nostrils, and her abdomen tightening and releasing sickeningly. Whoever had been struggling with the door now flung it open, and a flood of muffled murmurs greeted her. Hellie jumped to her feet, her gaze colliding fearfully with Jack's weary eyes.

"Get outta the way," he commanded gruffly, and she pulled herself to the far wall to allow the group the space they needed. Jack turned his head back to the weight he was struggling with, and Hellie noticed immediately the scraped, irriated skin of his ribs. But her concern was interrupted for the fear of a life more dire to her, for slung between Jack and Racetrack was the limp, bruised body that she knew so intimately. A gasp caught in her lovely throat, and she could not remove her eyes from the damage wrought on the boy she loved.

"Alright, now, Race. Put 'im down easy."

He obeyed, resting David's feet on the bed gently as Jack saw to the ginger placement of his head and shoulders. Hellie stared in shock, her feet riveted momentarily to the floor. It was a temporary fascination, however, and she rushed to his side before Jack even had the time to step back. She dropped to her knees in defeat, grasping his hand in her own--pressing the dirty, blood-caked palm against her face, her lips, her tears flowing over his limp fingers. Racetrack watched her uneasily, looking helplessly to Jack.

"Get a doctor..." he commanded, his voice detatched.

"Snoddy's already--"

"Right, right." Jack took a deep breath, allowing himself a subconcious sigh. His eyes remained riveted to his friends, and his words were spoken with almost no meaning at all. "It's alright, Race. You can go."

The bookie ran his tongue over his lips, not being able to resist the urge to gaze down at the beautiful, broken form sobbing at his friend's side. With a final, awkward sigh, Racetrack left the room, a feeling of defeat still hanging hazily over his head.

Jack's eyes slowly left the beaten form, falling to the girl weeping on her knees. She reminded him of a painting he had seen once, at the orphanage long ago. Of the angels, bitterly mourning the death of Christ--beautiful, despite the pain in their faces and eyes. He had never thought that realistic, until today.

She seemed not to notice that he was in the room as she stood trembling, tear-glazed eyes fixed on her lover. Gingerly, she climbed onto the bed, taking great care not to upset his position. With the sweetest, gentlest care, she lifted his head and slipped her thigh beneath, her fingertips softly brushing the thick, dusty waves of hair.

Jack found himself swallowing hard. He could not control his voice, nor his words as he spoke his mind:

"You really do love him. I didn't believe it, honestly. But's it's true. You do love him, don't you?"

Her eyes glanced up to him curiously, and their depths answered him without words. She smiled sadly, another tear burning a trail down her cheek. She stared at him for a long time, and Jack's gaze never wavered from hers. There was something mutual, in that connection. Something strong, and living; for the first time, they respected one another.

Jack's mouth gaped to appologize, but his voice was interrupted. Snoddy peeked into the room, his face strained.

"Doc's here."

The Manhattan leader nodded. "Send 'im in."

But the other boy dallied, staring intently at the floorboards to gather his thoughts.

"There's somethin' else, Jack. And it ain't good."

Cowboy allowed himself a weary sigh. "What is it?"

Snoddy's gaze wandered to Hellie, thoughtlessly running his tongue over his lips. Suddenly, his purpose returned to him, and he reluctantly wrenched his eyes back to Jack.

"I think you should step outside."


	17. The Death of Patroclus

_**THE DEATH OF PATROCLUS**_

_Spot Conlon's Apartment, Brooklyn Territory, 1900_

His sigh reeked heavily of cheap rum, which only served to make their situation appear all the more dismal. Very rarely was Spot Conlon known to sigh like that, and Flint and Clue knew well enough to take it as a bad sign. The tall, muscled boy who stood beside Brooklyn's sick bed, however, lacked the insight into the gangleader's mind, and continued smirking with his dark, unintelligent eyes glinting smugly.

Spot did not look up; his gaze - which peered through his right eye, for his left was swollen black and purple - was focused aimlessly on the dusty floor. Even as he spoke, his voice strained - a quality unknown to his young vocal chords:

"Ya're sure he's dead then?"

The boy's rugged, rather primitive face stretched into a proud grin. "Dead as a fuckin' doornail."

Spot Conlon sighed again, his eye travelling up to meet the naive, gloating gaze. In an ironic, distasteful mockery, he held out his bloodied hand--crudely bandaged with ripped cloths.

"Congratulations, Trigger. You just killed Brooklyn."

The newsie gaped wordlessly, turning his eyes from his leader to his seconds-in-command. Flint shrugged, lighting a cigarette. Clue sighed disdainfully, motioning to Spot as he spoke. He had a tendency to talk with his hands.

"Ya killed Mush's best friend."

Trigger shrugged stiffly, his thick skull preventing the information from fully sinking in.

"So? Mush ain't for Manhattan no more."

Flint didn't even bother to take out the cigarettes from the corners of his mouth. He simply muttered through his rigid lips:

"Just 'cause he ain't for Manhattan don't mean he ain't for Blink."

Suddenly, the Brooklyn fighter became very pale, his mouth slacking to an idiot's gape. Numbly, he glanced back at Spot.

"It's--it's the end 'a Brooklyn?"

Flint's lifeless tone could nearly be interpretted as sarcastic as it wafted to Trigger's ears like the smoke he spewed from his mouth:

"It's the end 'a you, anyway."

Trigger took this in for a long moment, contemplating his fate. Spot watched him, interested to a degree--though he was, for the most part, apathetic. Mush would leave this between him and Trigger; it was common knowledge that he hadn't wanted the war over Hellie in the first place. For this Spot was grateful--then suddenly pleased. Within the moment, he saw the end of the war. He saw the great finale drawing to its closing. Mush was the key. Had he the chilling brevity, he would have rewarded Trigger for killing Kid Blink, but even he lacked a certain distaste for praising the sacrifice. His mind replayed that very afternoon, being sure not to miss a beat. Bitterly, he remembered being knocked to the hard ground; remembered the dust rising in a cloud of fate about him. And he remembered Jack, pinning him there, leaning manevolently into his face and whispering...

_"I don't wanna kill you, Spot. Say Hellie's stayin', and we'll let this war go the right way. Say this is enough. Say she stays, until you get her back right. Just say it. Say it!"_

And he, Spot Conlon, had scorned his friend, with a wicked, glinting eye, and retorted with all the malice and blind, masculine pride that was Brooklyn, in and of itself:

_"I don't fuckin' believe it. She got to you, too."_

Jack hit him, again. He went out cold; he knew it, because the next time his eyes opened, he was in his apartment again. A gang fight: that's what happened. A brawl between the Brookies and 'Hattans, and that's when Trigger killed Kid Blink. That's why he was alive, that's why Brooklyn was going to win: because Trigger killed Blink.

He could feel the determination, brinking on a question of possibility, shining through the heavy gaze of Brooklyn's best fighter. Slowly, his stormy eye turned placidly to Trigger.

"You think I can beat 'im, Spot?"

It would determine whether or not Trigger would even try in the fight. And that would be necessary. Now Spot felt the added weight of Flint and Clue's gazes; questioning, anticipating. He smiled through cracked lips and chipped teeth, and nodded though the pain shot through his nerves like electricity.

"Sure, Trigger. You got a hell of a chance."

Which wasn't, altogether, untrue.

* * *

_Red Mill, The Bronx Territory, 1900_

Crystal was not, on normal occasions, the type that lived life based on things like omens and premonitions and bad feelings. She didn't really understand people who tried to. That wasn't to say she never got "bad feelings", or felt like she was going in the wrong direction; it was simply that she didn't believe those feelings had any merit. She was very good at pushing her emotions aside on most occasions; somehow, she'd failed here.

It wasn't a particularly bad feeling as much as it was a feeling she feared. Like most omens, it was hardly expected--but it was there, pounding ever-present in her mind and heart and innards just the same. It coursed through her body like the blood in her veins, and she didn't like that it was there.

She had woken up with it again this morning, but it was stronger now. More commanding, more controlling. It beat out of her every logical course of action--she practically lived on instinct. His fingertips sent waves of goosebumps over her skin--his eyes could take her breath away, and she hated it. She loathed it completely because she was not in control over what was happening in her heart. So often, her mind barred her heart from taking reign, but it had managed to escape. That was dangerous. She refused to read the signs her own body was sending to her. She would not admit that she actually..._cared--_yes, cared was a safe word. She cared for Mush. If only..._if only_ 'cared' was strong enough to describe the way her heart beat for him; the way her lungs took in air for him; the way she ate and drank and sat and stood and slept and woke and walked and spoke and did a million other trivial things _for him_. If only he wasn't the reason she even kept herself alive.

For her own safety, Crystal should have killed herself long ago. She would have had control over that. Without her, maybe Mush would have taken the time to contemplate his actions, and return to save his friends. Without her, maybe Spot Conlon could have gotten the very cards he deserved to be dealt.

She didn't like Spot. She'd never said it, nor even suggested it, but she contained within her a writhing loathement that could be likened to the hatred she felt for her sister. One thing the entire world misinterpretted was the reason behind her exquisite disdain for Hellie. They all figured it had to do with Hellie's appearance, which, indeed, had instigated jealousy on more than one occasion. But envy alone is not enough to turn one sister from another. Perhaps two friends, or lovers, but not sisters. Her hatred for Hellie had begun because her sister was cruel--selfish, suspicious, but mostly cruel. She hated her because she had always kept her thoughts and problems to herself, when she should have shared them for the contemplation of them both. Mostly she hated Hellie because she made boys fall in love with her when she did not love them back. And now--_now_, there was a war because of her. Because she had made a boy fall in love with her, others were dying. And she was too cruel to care.

That was Hellie. That had _always_ been Hellie. Crystal was not perfect--she was an opportunist with the best of them, a whore for security and well-being. She herself had made many boys fall in love with her, but never for her own amusement. For her own safety, or for a desirable profit, but never because a boy in love can be made into a clump of murky clay.

She herself had never been at the mercy of a lover's will--not until now. She had never before allowed herself to stoop to position of molding clay--_not until now_. The worst of it was, her transformation into dependency had been almost completely involuntary. She could not leave Mush--not because she could not simply walk out the door, but because she could not allow herself to. It was the knowledge of losing control, more than the actual loss of it, that irritated her. For the most part, she found herself wanting Mush lording protectively over her. He wasn't even an obvious master--he probably didn't even realize the extent of his rule. This made it more difficult yet. She realized, in her head, that she had the same control over him, but her heart never allowed her to exercise that control, because she didn't want it. She didn't want a clay man--she'd had several of those in her few years; enough to realize, anyway, that they weren't worth keeping around.

Crystal was considering all these things that morning. That morning that Mush slept in late, snoring quietly as her eyes examined him in critical thought. She loved him. That's what scared her.

There was a knock on the door--heavy and frantic, and it forced her to glance at the clock in irritation. Who would go knocking on doors at...oh. It was two in the afternoon.

Mush shot to full conciousness, looking about him with puzzled eyes. The knocking continued anxiously, and he pulled himself from the sheets, forbidding her with a glance from getting up. Her mind noted, in annoyance, that she obeyed without question.

"Alright! I'm comin'!"

He was pulling on his pants. His command did not serve to end the knocking, though; in fact, it only served to induce the visitor to jittering the doorknob frantically. Mush rolled his eyes, sprinting to the door to end the offending noise. Irritably, he flung open the door, a still pounding fist colliding unintentionally with his firm, muscular chest. Curiously, Crystal leaned forward to catch a glimpse at the visitor.

She could see the irritation flow out of his muscles, watched the tensed nerves and tendons relax as if water rippled from his shoulders and down his spine. Then she noticed something that set her nervously on edge: the color drained coldly from his slightly inclined face.

She heard the voice of the boy, but could not see him herself. Mush glanced back into the room, catching her eye and nodding at the sheets. Whoever it was couldn't wait for her to get dressed. Shrugging, she pulled the stained cotton up to her shoulders, and the ratted comforter with it. Their guest was allowed in--a short, trembling Italian boy.

"I know you thought we forgotta 'bout you, but I had some friends here tracin' ya. You got a job deliverin' groceries, right? Alberto there's my uncle--ma's brother," a distracted smile flitted across his strained features. " 'Hattan's been takin' care of you all along."

Mush glanced away, and Crystal was taken in by the boy's dark eyes for the first time. An innocent blush betrayed his streetwise speech, and he turned his gaze in appologetic embarrassment to his friend:

"You shoulda told me yah girl wasn't decent. I just figured..."

"Race," Mush intervened bluntly, his gaze travelling back to his fellow Manhattan boy, "why do I get the feelin' you weren't just droppin' by?"

The smaller boy (presumeably Race) let out a trembling sigh, allowing his eyes to wander back to Crystal's, as if inquiring of her what they ought do if Mush were to react in a way they physically could not handle. She had no answers, and he reluctantly turned his gaze to his old friend.

"Blink's dead, Mush. Trigger McKay got him this mornin'."

Racetrack Higgins had come expecting objects to be thrown and broken. He had come expecting loud yells and curses and anger pumping red-hot in the muscular frame of the boxing newsie he had come to know as his friend. He had come with the expectation that he would have to defend Jack Kelly from poisonous threats and names. He thought, as he had walked the dangerous networks of alleys to the Bronx, that he was expecting every possible reaction, and that he at least had an idea of what to do should the fury overwhelm Mush.

The one thing he hadn't expected, however, was Mush lowering himself numbly to the bed, dropping his head defeatedly into his hands, and crying with silent, heart-wrenching sobs.


	18. The Compromise

_**THE COMPROMISE**_

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Jack Kelly sat on the worn upholstered couch, contemplating the utter silence. It had been silent now for somewhere in ten minutes. He rubbed his knuckles thoughtfully, watching the skin go white under the pressure of his fingertips before the normal flesh tone diffused back. He'd been doing this for some six or seven odd minutes, and he hadn't found a better activity, so he continued.

He wasn't hurt badly. At least, he didn't see himself as having been hurt badly. His back and ribs ached like a son of a bitch, but he didn't consider that "hurt badly" after carrying David's unconsious body into his room. He snorted humorlessly. This would have to be the first time both he and Hellie were in that room, and it was completely silent. Even when they weren't...well, David snored. And Hellie never stayed in one position through an entire night. Jack figured her to be an annoyance to sleep with. The bed was always creaking with her changing positions. There was always some form of noise coming out of that room, when both of them were in there. Until now.

He felt sick, distantly, and accreditted it to his empty stomach. He'd figured on his hunger for the passed ten minutes, but he hadn't once even flinched in the direction of the kitchen. Rolling his shoulders, Jack let his fingers fall away from the knuckles of his other hand. An odd little tingling glittered through the nerves of that hand, and he was soon massaging his knuckles again. Now that he'd been doing it so long, it felt weird not to be. He cracked his neck. It felt like there was something he should be doing, but he couldn't think of what. Maybe it was just the fact that he hadn't sat in silence for an eternity.

Suddenly, a soft, whispering voice pierced the air like a needle--thin and silvery and almost indectable:

_"Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..."_

She was singing. Hellie was singing. Her voice barely carried about a whisper, and at certain notes creaked into audiblity.

_"Round yon virgin, mother and Child. Holy Infant so tender and."_

Jack couldn't figure out why she'd paused (though he had scoffed at her softly-pronounced "virgin"--_right_, like she knew anything about that). Suddenly, he heard the springs creaking, and then her feet shuffling. He heard the door open, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught her teary, needing gaze.

"Jack..."

He turned, his gaze connecting with hers. She took a deep breath, staring into the endless pits of his eyes. He fancied she saw his soul. He didn't know why, but he was trembling.

"What'sa matter?" he asked quietly, his voice not yet raising to noticeable concern.

Hellie let out her sigh and took another breath.

"Jack, I think I'm pregnant."

Jack felt his whole body snap with a flinch. His eyes cross-examined her, but she seemed almost in a daze. He wasn't really sure how, but she ended up sitting next to him on the couch.

"I-I don't know for sure or anything, but...I think...I think so."

Jack took a deep breath, suddenly feeling his throat clinging dryly to itself. There was a harsh, convicting stab in his gut--the stab that chasted him for hating them. He'd known, far off, that this was bound to happen. Two people at it that much always ended up with children. But what ugly timing. At seventeen, unmarried, with a boyfriend out to kill her, and the father of the child in a compromising situation...If Jack had been a biological sort, he would have wanted to destroy the sperm that fertilized the egg and brought aroud this mess, but, being a layman, Jack felt like hitting the kid for being there, for coming around now.

He wondered if he should say something. Hellie was looking at him expectantly, like he was supposed to. He glanced skeptically at the flat length of her stomach. There was a bit of him--a tiny, malicious bit--that hoped that child ruined every perfect contour of her frame. Sighing, he forced a smile and looked up into her eyes.

"Congratulations, I guess."

Those dark depths narrowed. "Don't be such a jackass. I swear, if you hadn't just carried David in here, I would hit you. I know you don't need this--none of us do. But it happened, and you might as well know."

Jack shrugged, glancing away. " 'It happened.' Ya make it sound like a freakin' one-night-stand. He banged you every night 'a the week; I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner."

A warning flash of black light emitted from her eyes. "I deserve this, then. That's what you're saying, right?"

He nodded. "That's what I'm sayin'."

"And what if I want this baby? What if this is exactly what I wanted all along?"

Jack snickered loudly at her. "Right. You love Davey--I'll give ya that. That alone's a feat 'a your ability. Lovin' someone who's gonna stretch out yah pretty little stomach and drain out yah beautiful busts ain't in yah heart."

Hellie shook her head angrily, looking away from him. "You think my looks is all I care about. You think it's the only thing I got."

He shrugged. "Quite frankly, yeah. I'm thinkin' that's the one thing you got, and you know it, and you'd rather not lose it."

Jack could feel her eyes boring fiercely into his flesh, but he refused to look at her. He couldn't decide why he kept arguing with her. More than anything, he just wanted her to go back into that room.

"There was a time when I was like that," she spat angrily.

"Yeah, somewhere in five seconds ago," Jack interjected quickly. He could hear her irritated snort.

"And I swear, if this was Spot's kid, I'd still be like that. If it was anyone else's kid, I'd be like that. But...but it's David's baby, and it matters to me...because it's his. You probably can't understand it. But it does matter, and I do want it. And...nevermind..."

He watched her go back into the room out of the corner of his eye, and listened to the door close behind her. He snorted inaudibly._ Of course_ she wanted the baby now. It wasn't born yet. It wasn't even big yet. She was at the easiest part of the whole situation. As of now, it was the easiest point for all of them. But then she'd have to eat more, and then she'd be sick, and sore, and all that other wonderful stuff that came with a pregnant woman. Jack knew well enough. Some of his closest associates throughout his life had been whores. Medda expressed to him openly and often that there was nothing she hated more than a pregnant woman; and by woman she was, of course, referring to the husbandless, selfish performers of her stage. A dark, ironic smirk curled its way into Jack's features. That's exactly what Hellie Caden was--a husbandless, selfish performer. If only...

But that was wrong. And David would want his baby, even if he didn't deserve the burden of it. But David wouldn't have to know if...But it was still wrong. Jack heaved a sigh. Somewhere, in the dark labrynth of the Bronx, was a doctor. He could cut babies out of women's stomachs. Butcher Reilly, they called him. Jack really didn't want to do that. He really didn't want to think about it. Angrily, he forced his mind to find some other train of thought. It was sick even to picture...

"Jack, you in there?"

The Manhattan leader jumped up to his feet, glancing about the room. He soon figured the noise's direction from the door, and started towards it. He knew who would be standing in the doorway before he even rest his hand on the knob. Racetrack Higgins had a voice unique unto itself among Jack Kelly's associates. Interests perked, he flung open the door.

He was quite surprised to meet a glittering, emerald gaze foremost, however. His brow furrowed as his eyes were dragged from the stranger's face to that of his old friend.

"Jack, we got this thing we gotta talk about."

And Race let himself in without another thought. Jack could feel those eyes upon him expectantly, and he took up some manners to allow her into the room. She was pretty, and vaguely familiar. She smiled, and her face became beautiful. Shyly, it seemed, she sat down next to Race on the couch. Jack couldn't help contemplating her hair as it took on the rich, golden quality of the sun as he closed the door; nor could he help his eyes wandering down her throat and the length of her body. She was very pretty. And it occurred to him rather suddenly that he wanted her.

"Alright, Race," Jack stated mechanically, not removing his eyes from this mysterious girl, "What do we gotta talk about?"

Racetrack sighed, glancing sidelong at the girl, then up to Jack. His leader did not meet his gaze. The other boy was not one to miss the gleam in his eye, and his dark gaze turned back to the girl at his side. The viridian glint of her eyes said she saw and comprehended Jack completely. That fleeting glance also demanded that she take care of it.

"Mush is back. He's goin' to kill Trigger McKay."

Suddenly, Jack's eyes were wrenched from the girl, and he stared his shock at Race.

"He is? He don't think we're backin' him--"

Racetrack shrugged. "He sure could. And, honestly Jack, it would make things a lot easier..."

"Not happenin'," Jack intervened sharply, his eyes ablaze with a vengeful fire. "He insulted us--he insulted _Manhattan_--"

"He insulted you, Jack," Racetrack stated bluntly. His leader studied him, the inferno within him still blazing with the freshness of the insult. Jack Kelly took a step towards his friend, the very length of his foot threatening. Racetrack, despite himself, drew an inch back against the cushion of the couch before fiercely leaning forward. It was a single, precarious moment that hung a split second before Manhattan would crumble, and this deterrioration--this split between leadership and following--seemed inevitable, now, and unavoidable. Fortunately, as women have the power to start wars, they also hold the ability to stop them.

"And he'd like to make it up."

The soft, melodic statement froze the pair, and their dark eyes turned in shock to the third, forgotten party. A sweet, enticing smile lit her tantalizing lips.

"Who're you?" Jack finally took the time to say. Yet as she stood, she spoke not a word. Race quickly filled him in, his puzzlement evident in his tone:

"Crystal--uh, Mush's gi--"

"Gift," she intervened, bringing herself to a stop just before the leader of Manhattan. She gazed up into his eyes, possessing all the traits of a perfect slavegirl: beauty, compliance, and above all, an absolute lack of personality.

Crystal always had been the smarter one.

She brought her lips up before his, so that she could not talk without brushing them against his.

"Mush requests that you allow him back into Manhattan. If his strength and apology cannot convince you..." Now the sweet, expert warmth of her mouth. Jack was suddenly reminded of how long it had been since last he'd been with a girl. "Perhaps I can."

Jack breathed out a sigh trembling with desire, and his eyes turned to Race's questioningly. The dark little newsie shrugged, and was on his way to the door. This was all news to him. All Mush had told him was to take his girl to a safe place in case he didn't come back. Vaguely, Racetrack felt like he should drag Crystal out of here before she did anything that Much would kill Jack for, but he realized in the same instant that if she didn't, Manhattan was a lost cause. Defeated in his own catch-22, Racetrack mumbled a goodbye and left the apartment.

Crystal Caden kissed Jack Kelly again, wrapping her arms desperately about his neck. A picture of Mush's face rose to her mind, but she quickly pushed it back down, embracing the Manhattan leader more fiercely. She had to do this. Not just so that Mush would return and save his friend. Not just for the revenge he needed to seek. No, this was truly and delibrately about her. She refused to be a slave to love. She refused to be under his spell, and addicted to him. And she would prove it, here and now. With Jack Kelly. With the boy he hated. With the leader of Manhattan.

Jack wrapped his arms tightly about her and gruffly picked her up. Somewhere in the darkness of her eyelids, she was carried to a room, and a door was slammed shut. Somehow, in the natural fit of lust and attraction, she was pushed on a bed. And somehow, in the midst of sheets and clothes and skin and hair and breath and passion, Crystal became Jack's slave.


	19. Arrangements

_**ARRANGEMENTS**_

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

From somewhere outside of the room, a musical chime muffled through the closed door to Crystal's ear as she lay awake in the arms of Jack Kelly. Wearily, her eyelids dropped as she again contemplated sleep. It was three in the morning, and her body trembled with exhaustion. Jack had fallen to snoring almost in the same moment his body was spent. Crystal could already feel her muscles cramping. Either the Manhattan leader had a perpetual adrenaline rush, or he was pent up with frustrated anger, because she had only known drug addicts and murderers to lay into her that hard. She glanced at his face, inches from her own. He looked peaceful now--she imagined his tensions were at least temporarily releaved.

A sudden pang of sadness swept over her body, and for some reason she had to battle down a sob. She had to get out of this room--get a drink...something. Without another thought, Crystal slid from Jack's embrace and out of the bed. The coolled night air sent a chill up her naked spine, so she grappled for Jack's disregarded shirt and slung it carelessly over her shoulders, deciding that any sicko up at three in the morning peering in windows at least deserved something to look at for his effort.

She didn't pay much heed to the noise she created getting out of the room; she figured Jack was too deep in slumber to hear anything, anyway. Stumbling blindly towards the door, she was met by a curious beam of light stretching through the crack between it and the floor. With a slight frown, she slipped out of the room, her gaze colliding instantly with a set of shocked brown eyes. The shock immediately gave way to dark malice.

"Get sick 'a doin' Brooklyn?" that familiar, musical voice taunted sharply. If sounds could be objects, Crystal mused, her sister's tone then would be a gleaming knife.

Crystal inclined her head with an unintimidated shrug. "Same could be said 'a you."

Hellie snorted, taking a bite from the slice of bread in her hand.

"If by '_Brooklyn_' you mean that bastard of a Conlon--yeah, I got sick 'a Brooklyn."

Crystal crossed the room to the couch, taking a nonchalant seat. Hellie's muscles tensed visibly, and her sister's jaw set in a defiant retort. The brunette took another bite, allowing the silence to go sour and brittle between them in the hopes that her blonde counterpart would take a hint and go back to bed. Crystal smiled to herself, and it annoyed Hellie.

She swallowed and asked with venom congeniality, "Did ya get that thing removed on yah--?"

The blonde's eyes narrowed for a brief moment, but soon faded into the sarcastic gleam of an insulted smirk:

"Yeah. How 'bout yours?"

Hellie's brow rose impatiently. "I've never had one."

Crystal snickered, leaning back comfortably against the couch cushion.

"Bullshit."

Her sister's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

Crystal met her Bambi-gaze evenly. "That's bullshit."

Hellie stared at her in innocent awe. "I've only ever been with Spot and David--"

Crystal snorted. "That's bullshit, too."

Her sister glared for a moment, her fingers curling into a fist. "Just because you was a freakin' whore for every bastard that wanted it--"

The blonde sighed calmly, running her fingers through her disheveled hair. "I learned from my elders."

Hellie tore an angry bite with her teeth, chomping on the bread amidst her words. "Don't talk about Ma that way!"

Crystal watched her, replying with freezing brevity. "I wasn't talkin' about Ma."

The older sister glared, her mouth still bulging with her bite. The blonde almost chuckled, savoring a wicked:

"You look ugly when you do that."

Hellie's eyes became suddenly very wide in shock, and she choked down the hunk of bread within the moment. Crystal laughed, turning her eyes to the mantle place in front of her. Her brow furrowed in curiosity, so the younger Caden girl stood and walked over to gain a closer look at the three tin pictures standing modestly in a row. She studied them for a silent moment, her finger trailing the serious face of a small, curly-haired boy.

"Is this him?"

The older sister was startled at this sudden turn to politeness, and nodded. "When they came over from Poland. That's his sister there. Crazy little bitch..."

Crystal's brow rose with retort, "If she didn't like you, I'd say she's pretty well sane."

Hellie rolled her eyes, pulling the crust off. "No, I mean she's a freakin' loon. They hauled her off to the funny farm 'couple days ago. She went all nuts one night--yelled about some glass dame."

Her sister's emerald gaze turned in wonder to meet the studious, chocolate eyes. The blonde watched a sudden flash of realization light the dark glance, and saw the color drain from her lovely face.

"Crystal..."

The younger girl shook her head in wonder. "What is it?"

Hellie's hand began to tremble, and she stared accusingly at her sister. "Get the hell outta here."

Crystal's brow furrowed; she crossed her arms over her chest and started back towards Jack's door. "Maybe you's the freakin' loon."

"I'm serious, Crystal."

Her sister gripped the doorknob, tilting her head to the side and shooting the other girl a defiant look. "I don't give a fuck, Hellie."

* * *

_Spot Conlon's Apartment, Brooklyn Territory, 1900_

Clue leaned back in his seat, taking a drag from his cigarette. He watched Spot Conlon's face carefully, studying the youthful contours as they hardened in heavy consideration. Clue could feel Flint's sidelong glance at him, smirking with confidence. The plan was flawless; Clue wasn't going to disagree, considering the fact that it was principly his idea. He just wondered if Spot could stoop low enough for a time to be the winner in the end. Some people were too cocky to do the smart thing. Spot had his tendencies.

With a final sigh, the Brooklyn leader glanced up, a smirk pulling up the sides of his mouth and kindling his gaze. Slowly, his face spread into a grin.

"Nice work, boys."

Flint and Clue shared a glance, and the latter let out a sigh of relief.

"You think it'll work, then?" he questioned, just to be sure.

Spot threw a confident shrug. " 'Course it will. Mush here yet?"

Flint glanced at the door. "I think he's cleanin' up. He was surprised you wanted to see him."

The leader quirked a brow. "He kills my best guy and he didn't think I'd want a chat? Jeeze, Mush..."

As if in answer, a heavy knock beat against the door. Clue rose out of his chair. "That'll be him."

He crossed the room with a brisk step, allowing the boxer in. Mush's dark eyes fleeted the room in a moment, a question being asked in his quiet gaze as it came to meet the arrogant silver depths of Spot Conlon's hospitable stare. A smile spread across the shorter boy's face, and he motioned to a chair.

"Go on, have a seat. We gotta talk."

The boxer glanced at Flint, then Clue, uncertain.

"What'd you got to be afraid of? You killed our best Brooky," Spot murmured a little too happily for the statement.

Suspiciously, Mush sat down in Clue's seat. Clue sighed, pulling out the chair meant for their guest and seating himself.

"What is it, Spot?"

Brooklyn appeared offended, tipping his head to the side innocently. "Don'tcha trust me?"

The Manhattan boy met his eyes evenly, honestly. "No."

Clue glanced at Flint, who shot him a questioning look. Their eyes turned expectantly to Spot, as if anticipating a flared reaction, but their leader only chuckled and leaned conversationally towards his guest.

"I like ya, Mush. You don't take the time to bullshit nobody. So I ain't gonna waste time bullshittin' you."

The boxer nodded, relaxing slightly. Spot's smile spread happily.

"I'm tired of fightin' 'Hattan, Mush. I like the Lower East Side--always have. And I like Jack. He's a great guy, but...I'm hopin' you agree when I say that this war was unnecessary."

Mush's brow rose in surprise. "That's what I been sayin' all along."

Clue fought back a smirk as Spot nodded his enthusiastic agreement. "I'm glad. Ya see, it wasn't Davey that created this war. It wasn't me, and it wasn't Hellie. If we'da had our way, this'd be over now. But Jack--my good friend, God bless 'im--decided to put himself in the way and protect 'em. You know he had a chance to end this war? I gave it to him--I said I'd leave Davey alone, he'd give Hellie to me, and this'd all be over. He wouldn't do it, Mush! He kept it goin' at the risk of his men--the risk 'a some real good guys, and fellas not even involved ended up dead. I almost cried when I get word back my boys killed Skits--and Blink! My God, I almost killed that lousy Trigger on the spot, but I knew you'd do 'im in better."

Mush bit his lip, glancing down at the grains in the table. Angry tears were welling in his eyes with this knowledge. He wanted to kill Jack. The war could've ended, Blink could still be alive...damn him. Damn Jack Kelly.

Spot allowed a silent moment to allow his words to sink in and reproduce rage in the boxer's mind. Suddenly, those dark eyes snapped to his, and Brooklyn kept his smirk in his actor's mind.

"Mush, I'm endin' this war. But I need yah help, 'fore another good guy from the strike is dead."

The boxer nodded solemnly, taking in a sigh. "What do you need me to do?"

Now Flint smirked at Clue, and the brain of Brooklyn smirked back. He had been unsure, until now. Now, their plan would come into play.

Spot took a deep breath. "I need you to stay the hell away from the Lower East Side for one night. Just stay the hell away."

Mush's brow furrowed suspiciously. "Can I ask why?"

Brooklyn shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell ya. Now, you got a girl hidin' in 'Hattan?"

The boxer's eyes widened in shock. "How'd you--"

An almost wicked smirk spread across Spot Conlon's face. "Little birds..." Flint and Clue shared a murmured chuckle. Spot continued. "I'm garaunteein' her safety. I can't tell you what's gonna happen, but it's gonna be dangerous. But I swear to you right here that that dame won't have one hair outta place."

Mush swallowed, studying his hands in thought. He took a deep breath, a fear churning in his stomach. Against his better judgement, he choked down his nerves and looked up into the confident silver of Spot Conlon's eyes.

"One night?"

He nodded. "One night."

The boxer let out a long sigh, nodding slowly. "When?"


	20. Trojan Horse

_**TROJAN HORSE**_

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Jack Kelly's mind was dazed within the foggy, exhausted dreamworld of sleep. His body was heavy with slumber, and ached from stiffness and fatigue. But he slept. For the first time in weeks, he truly slept. From somewhere far off, a voice seemed to drift lullingly into his ear...

_Kings die, Priam..._

And he didn't know why, but his interests perked in his subconsious, as if answering to his own name.

_Princes fall, and concubines take their last breaths..._

Though he did not realize it in his sleep, cold sweat began to bead on the surface of his skin. Somehow, his mind connected this hazy whispering to some familiar voice. A streak of curious horror illuminated his dreamer's mind. It was Sarah.

_But heroes live forever._

His eyes snapped open, and his mouth was agape with want of air. He shook his head, dark gaze darting about the room frantically. He was alone, and something in that realization haunted him. Quickly, he jumped out of bed, barely taking the time to struggle on his pants. Jack wanted to get out of the room. It was cold with the spirit of a ghost.

He threw open the door hastily, allowing the day's light to spill into the room and dazzle his eyes for a moment of temporary blindness. Somewhere, another voice came benignly to his ear:

"Oh! I didn't know you were up..."

And then his sight began to glitter back to him. He saw that everything was normal. That girl...what was her name? Crystal was in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled remotely familiar. She smiled at him, walking away from the stove. Suddenly, she was standing in front of him, and somehow, her hands were on his abdomen, and she was kissing him...

Jack felt as if he was drunk. He could not shake his mind from the haunting haze his dream had left him in. He blinked a few times, meeting the sparkling emerald gaze that stared up at him sweetly. He touched her hair, and he felt sick. It must have shone on his face, because her brow knit in concern.

"Are you alright?"

He shook his head dazedly, walking away from her. He sat down on the couch, staring at nothing in particular, thoughts reeling as if with ineberation.

"Sarah's dead," he stated blandly, and he couldn't figure out why he'd said it.

He could feel her nervous eyes on him from across the room. A door opened, but he didn't look up. Footsteps. Stop.

"What's the matter?"

It was Hellie who had asked it. He figured Crystal shrugged helplessly; glanced his way. Now Hellie was looking at him. How did she end up sitting beside him?

"Jack, are you okay?"

She wanted him to look at her, but he didn't feel like turning his gaze. Ever since when was she concerned? Fingertips on his face. His eyes turned instantly, meeting hers with what must have been haunting iciness.

"You look like ya saw a ghost," she whispered with an uneasy chuckle, glancing away. He swallowed, shaking his head again. His throat was dry. But he didn't want anything to drink.

As if meant to snap him out of his reverie, an urgent knock sounded against the door. Hellie glanced at Jack expectantly, but he made no move to answer it. With a nervous sigh, she got to her feet and opened the door. Her gaze collided surprisingly with a familiar set of blue eyes.

"Clue?"

He nodded, shoving past her. "Hellie," he murmured gruffly, barely taking in her face. Racetrack Higgins was right behind him.

"Hey, Jack!"

The Manhattan leader looked up, normalcy suddenly possessing him with anger.

"Race, who the hell is this, huh? I thought I said no nobody up here!"

Racetrack held up his hands patiently. "It's alright, Cowboy. This Brooky gots somethin' to say to ya." His eyes turned sharply to the Brooklyn second-in-command. "Go on, Clue-boy. Tell 'im."

Clue took a deep breath, sending an irritated glare to Racetrack. "Brooklyn wants to surrender."

Jack's eyes widened in shock, turning in amazement to his bookie friend. The other boy only smirked.

"I knew you'd wanna hear that."

Cowboy was not so easily convinced. He stared the Brooky over, hard. "I never known Brooklyn to give up a fight. What're the strings?"

Clue met his eyes evenly, honestly. "Ain't no strings, Cowboy. You got our best man, you got a lotta other guys. Now you got Mush fightin' for you again. We're sick 'a the bloodshed and all. Spot's got himself a new girl, and he don't want Hellie no more. So he wantsta end it."

Jack studied the messenger in tough scrutiny, nose attuned for the scent of a rat. He smelled no foulplay. The words he had been praying to hear had finally drifted to his ears, and suddenly his mind forgot all about his haunting dream, and Sarah's disarming whispers. A relief was coursing through his veins, and his shoulders straightened as if a heavy burden had been heaved off of them. He looked at Racetrack.

And Jack Kelly smiled.

"It's over?" Hellie whispered. Clue barely looked at her, but he nodded. She sighed gratefully, returning to her and David's room without another word.

"Spot wantsta invite you's boys to a celebration--"

"No," Jack intervened, and every eye was upon him in surprise. He couldn't help his boyish grin. "Tell Brooklyn to come here. We's havin' a party for them!"

Clue's smile broadened; Race laughed jovially; Jack leaned back in his own good humor. There was a quiet, uneasy jerk on Crystal's lips, and suddenly Clue felt her studious gaze upon his own. He met them, and his happiness dampened slightly with the simple accusation in the intelligent depths. He tried again to grin convincingly, watching her expectantly, but her expression didn't change.

Crystal Caden was born in an alleyway just a block from the Brooklyn Bridge. She had grown up in a tenement that was filled each day with the slimy scent of stagnet brine from the docks. Her father had helped build that bridge; her brother drowned by those docks when he was twelve. The first boy to take away her innocence had a history near identical to her own. Crystal knew Brooklyn; she had been born Brooklyn, she had grown up Brooklyn, she had worked Brooklyn, she talked Brooklyn, she would die Brooklyn. Brooklyn had clothed her and spited her and loved her and disciplined her; Brooklyn had surrounded her and been inside her. She had but one mindset, because it was the only one she could ever possibly know. Crystal thought Brooklyn.

And she knew this was a trap.

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"It's over," she whispered, her breath stirring the soft, curled locks beside his ears. She didn't know if he could hear her; his responses over the past few days seemed selective--some things brought him to consciousness, some things had no effect on him whatsoever. Eager for repercussion, she kissed his temple, urging him to find consiousness.

"David, it's all over. Spot gave up."

She watched his face anxiously; watched the jerk of his mouth, and the flutter of his eyelids. A smile lit her lovely features, and she kissed his temple again.

"Please, baby, wake up. It's a good day, David. A real good day."

Hellie took hold of his hand in both of hers, waiting eagerly for a responsive squeeze. His fingers twitched faintly, and she counted that enough.

"I want you to be better. Everythin's okay now. And I want you awake..."

She could feel a sob catching in her throat, despite herself. She gently brushed a lock of hair off of his brow, only for it to bounce back into place. Hellie smiled tragically, pulling herself down onto the bed. She laid down beside him, stroking his cheek thoughtfully.

"I love you, David. I really do."

In Hellie's memory, she could not recall another time when he had not returned with the likewise.

* * *

_Red Mill, the Bronx Territory, 1900_

Mush's boredom was being manifested in new and peculiar ways. For the passed half hour, he had stared relentlessly at the pigeon on the windowsill, feeding its screetching, ugly chicks. He watched her produce the twisting, slimy strand of food, choose which one of her young would get it, and fly off as the unfortunate others cheeped their protest. This really wasn't all that interesting to him; Mush didn't have an affinity for birds--he didn't even really like them--but it was taking his mind hypnotically away from the guilty stab of his stomach. He knew that if he didn't stare aimlessly at something, then he'd be thinking about what it was Spot was doing, and why he didn't want him there. Crystal's safety was the only thing keeping him in the empty inn room, staring at the ugly gray pigeon with its ugly gray babies to keep his mind off of the ugly gray feeling that was slowly creeping into his entire body.

The bird had finished that meal of the day. Reluctantly, he turned his eyes to a crack in the wall, studying every jut and fissure along its intricate surface. He knew this wouldn't last him very long. There was no monotony--no rhythm to it. He could not be drawn in by its simple repetition; it didn't have any. His mind would wander again...

_Away from the Lower East Side_. Jack's part of Manhattan. But every time that thought came to him, he realized that it wasn't just _Jack's_ part of Manhattan. It was Racetrack's and Bumlets's and Jake's and Pie Eater's and Kid's--yes, it was _especially_ Kid Blink's and Skittery's. It was his part of Manhattan...still. He _hoped_ it was still his. He snorted at himself condescendingly. If it was still his, he ought to be there.

_For one night._ It was an attack. It's not like it took a military genius to figure that one out. Whenever they garaunteed someone's safety--whenever they _had_ to garauntee someone's safety--it was an attack of one form or another. Brooklyn was making one felling swoop on Manhattan, and they had made certain Mush wouldn't be there. They had made certain by protecting someone he loved.

Mush's breath suddenly caught. He had thought this through a dozen times, but this moment was first in which the puzzle was finally together. That guilty stab in his gut was hypocricy--he was sacrificing his friends' lives for a girl.

He jumped off of the bed, catching the time on the clock. It was just passed five. He jammed his hands into his pockets, counting change based on the size of coins he took into his palms. If he left right now, he could catch the trolley. Mush couldn't help his disdainful sigh. It would be a few hours, and he'd have to change cars once or twice...but he had to go. Race had come the whole distance to tell him about Blink; he could go the whole distance for Race.

Without another thought, Mush was out the door, his anxious feet tingling with the determination of new purpose.


	21. Heroes Die

* * *

_**HEROES DIE**_

_Black Tavern, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Jack Kelly loved this place. Not simply the tavern--though it was one of his many indulgent adorations. No, he was amorously involved in this spiritual place; in the plateau his emotions had reached. He was in love with his freedom, with the first real sleep he had enjoyed in weeks that afternoon. He was in love with Hellie and David finally safe, with or without his protection. He was in love with Spot Conlon ceasing the fighting. As he stepped into the dim, smokey tavern, he was in love with the Brookies and Manhattan boys sitting around tables and laughing together. He was in love with the easy girls that were being swung about the dance floor. He was in love with the talented little Polish band boys that couldn't mutter a word of English, but were fluent enough in the language of music. Jack Kelly was deeply, stirringly in love with peace. He was probably in love with himself, too.

He had his arm about Crystal, and she was smiling and happy and sweet. She seemed to know the Brooklyn boys well, though Jack wasn't bothered with why. His eyes frantically sought the friend he was sure he had lost. As could be expected, Spot found him before his gaze could even place the Brooky leader.

"Jacky-boy!" And everything was how it used to be in that phrase. Jack let go of Crystal to embrace his friend. In the back of his throat, he could feel tears, but he choked them down before they travelled up to his eyes.

"Thanks, Spot," he murmured seriously. Brooklyn let him go, grinning mischeviously at his friend.

"Hey, thank _you_ for the party! C'mon, Jacky-boy, let's go get us some drinks."

Jack found himself grinning, too. His eyes turned to Crystal quickly. Her gaze was fastened intently on Spot, and someone looking for it would have found accusation in those emerald pits. Jack Kelly was not looking.

"You want somethin' to drink, sugar?"

Her eyes did not waver from the silvered blue depths of Spot Conlon's eyes. "No. Do you mind if I--there's someone here I haven't talked to in a while."

Jack nodded dismissively. "Sure, go. But you come back around if these Brookies get to drunk for ya." And he sent a playful glance to his friend. Spot sent him an angerless glare. Crystal's mouth jerked with a smile, and she evanesced into the crowd. Brooklyn smiled, slinging his arm over Jack's shoulders.

"Whaddya drinkin' now? Black's got the best whiskey, no doubt, but my boys brought some vodka from Russian's."

Jack shrugged, simply basking in the ectasy of freedom and frienship and forgiveness.

"Don't matter, Spot."

Conlon grinned; nonchalantly, "How 'bout Davey? You got him on anything?"

For the first time since that morning, Jack's face sombered. "He ain't...well, he ain't awake yet. Doc says you knocked him out damn good."

A genuine expression of worry clouded the overly-youthful visage of Spot Conlon. "He's gonna get better, though, right?"

Jack nodded reassurance, mostly for himself. "Sure, sure he is. Doc says he'll be wakin' soon. Hellie stayed with him--didn't see no point in comin' without 'im."

Spot's head declined in understanding. "I wanna go see 'em--sometime tonight. Where'd you have 'em all this time?"

And the Manhattan boy found nothing unusual in this request. "Jacobs' apartment. It's where I been livin'. Only three of my guys know, and two 'a them's dead."

Spot glanced away from his friend, gathering his breath carefully. He knew which two Jack was talking about.

"I got somethin' to show you, Jack."

* * *

_Black Tavern, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"Why, Clue, how long's it been?" the sweet, benign little voice requested with a ray-of-sunshine smile and a sparkling, flirtish gaze. The Brooklyn brain startled, looking up from his card game restlessly. She watched the color drain from his face.

"Cr-Crystal."

Her pretty features brightened happily. "Oh, then you do remember me!"

The boys about the table gave Clue an approving look, and he smiled nervously. Only those hawkish emerald eyes could have possibly noticed the small twitch in the boy's Adam's apple.

"How could I forget?" Clue strained. Crystal couldn't believe how someone with Medda Larkson as a mother could have missed out on theatrical talent altogether. She grabbed his hand with the eagerness of a virgin bride.

"Oh, Clue, you'll dance with me, won'tcha? I know it's just been forever, but," she didn't finish. She just pulled him to his feet and into her arms. Whether or not Clue was protesting really didn't matter; it was lost in the hubbub of music and twirling bodies and rhythmic feet. All he knew, despite his whirling desire to be away from her, was that suddenly her arm was tight about his neck, and her hand was strongly gripping his, and her body was pressed insanely close to his chest. A shot of pain raced up his leg. He also knew that she was intentionally becoming the worst dancing partner he had ever had.

"Crystal, please don't--_Ow!_--step on my feet!" he hissed desperately as her thin, sharp heel drove into his toes again.

Her eyes widened in a mocking of innocence. "Oh, dear, you'll just hafta excuse me! I got Two. Left. _Feet!"_

Something warm was leaking over Clue's toes inside his worn shoes. He wanted to think it was nervous sweat, but he was more than certain it was blood. He bit down on his lip, staring her down angrily.

"What the hell do ya want, Crystal?" he demanded harshly, his feet more bruised than his pride. She cocked her head to the side, almost irritated, and turned her hips suggestively so that his knee fit between her thighs. Clue didn't like the unwanted rush of thoughts that immediately swept through his head at this single movement.

"Oh, fuck your stupid act, Clue! I grew up in Brooklyn, same as you, so just drop the act for, like, five seconds. You know what I want, so what the hell do you want in return?"

The Brooklyn brain swallowed nervously, clearing his throat. "Crystal..."

If it was possible, she held him tighter in her anger. "Damnit, Clue! What the fuck is goin' on?"

The boy pushed her off of him forcefully, grateful for the foot or so between them. His eyes burned with rage and wounded machisimo and simple frustration. He gave her shoulder a childish shove, taking a little bit of his malice out of him. His anger balanced slightly by this simple motion, he shoved her into an empty little corner of the room.

"You're safe, Crystal! Alright? _You're_ safe. So go be the shit-faced drunk whore you always have been, and have a good time gettin' down on yah knees for six different guys, 'cause _you're_ perfectly safe!" Short, heavy breaths slipped rhythmically from his mouth. Hers only trembled, slightly agape, as her shocked-senseless mind emitted readably from her eyes. Clue took a step nearer to her, staring into those blank, deep green eyes. "I grew up in Brooklyn, same as you, so drop the act for, like, five seconds. Stop actin' like you give a damn about what happens to Manhattan, and Jack Kelly, and any 'a these other guys you probably fucked while you was here, 'cause the only thing you really give a rat's ass about is yahself."

Exhales trembled difficultly between her lips. She sucked in air slowly, trying to regain herself. Fearfully, she tried to meet his eyes, but they were turned away from her, watching Spot Conlon dismiss himself from Jack Kelly's company. He took in a quick breath, and was staring into her eyes again.

"There's an old upstairs here. Used to be for whores when Nero had the joint. Now listen to me. This is important. Walk over to the bar. Ask for a shot 'a cognac. The wyno'll take you to the stairwell. Go up the steps, and don't come back down. Alright? Do _not_ come back down. I'll come and get you later, but damnit, Crystal, if you come down them steps 'fore I get you, you's just as well puttin' a bullet through yah head. Do you hear me?"

Crystal moistened her quivering lips, nodding almost undectably. Clue's short sigh could almost pass for a snort.

"Good enough, then."

He glanced over his shoulder, watching Spot walk out the door. Had Crystal the stability beyond her fears, she would have listened to the quiet, muttered, "Why so damn soon?" that barely tripped out of Clue's mouth. He cracked his neck, and turned to leave. Crystal bit back her fright momentarily. She needed something... something dry and humorous in all this to retain her sanity. To be able to do what little was asked of her, she need her mind lifted to a carefree place, where she would not be considering the motives of what she was told.

"Clue."

Her voice stopped him, and he turned to meet her eyes. "Yeah?"

"I don't like cognac."

* * *

_Black Tavern, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Jack Kelly raised his glass to the line of shots at the bar. Someone had taken the time to etch crude letters into the tiny glasses. A sad smile graced his lips. Thoughtfully, he traced the thin, slightly skewed line that made up the 'S' in Skittery. He closed his eyes. Someone came and stood beside him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"They woulda been glad to see this," Race whispered consolingly. Jack opened his eyes and nodded difficultly.

"I'm glad they did," he agreed quietly, his hand moving over to the rim of Trigger McKay's glass. Racetrack shook his head.

"Somethings...shoulda never happened."

Jack nodded his agreement as his shorter friend picked up Kid Blink's glass and studied the amber liquid inside. There was a chuckle in his throat, but tears were welling his eyes.

"For ol' times' sake, Kid," he muttered, and downed the shot. Jack laughed tragically, a tiny droplet rolling down the side of his face.

"He always said..."

Racetrack strained a smile and dragged his sleeve over his eyes. Their voices wove into a unison that resounded with haunting precision like Kid Blink's own tone:

"Drink it so I don't."

Jack shook his head, much in the same way an elderly man shakes his head at the way the world has transformed before his very eyes. Race examined the glass a second longer before placing it back in line with the rest. A heavy, haunting darkness surrounded him that was not quite black. It was gray, and ghostly, and somehow, Racetrack knew that if he did not shake it now, it would envelope him his entire life.

"Where'd Spot go?"

Jack sighed, looking away from the enigma of the shots. They reminded him of a row of candles in a vigil for someone's soul--of a time, long ago, when he lived with his parents, and his mother had taken him to the great cathedral to pray for some beloved lost. He wondered, remotely, what that row would look like if each still pool had a burning flame set above it. If the placid amber liquid meant never to be drank was afire, hot and blue and furious, and what sort of meaning would be implied if it was.

"Jack...?" Racetrack shook him out of his musings. The Manhattan leader's attention snapped to his friend.

"Oh, sorry. Spot went to see Davey. Wanted to get some stuff off his chest."

Race nodded tranquilly. His dirty, chewed fingertip ran over the etchings of the only empty shot glass.

"Guess we all do."

A thought suddenly lit in Jack's mind, and his eyes turned wildly to his friend. "Race, can you spot two bits?"

The shorter boy's brow furrowed with puzzlement. "Sure...Why?"

Jack shook his head, clearing his head. "I gotta settle somethin'--I gotta...I gotta know somethin'. I'll pay ya back tomorrow."

Racetrack was still confused, but his friend's urgency was enough to put his wonderings on hold. He tugged some change out of his pocket and placed it in the palm of Jack's hand. The older boy nodded his gratitude and sprinted towards the door. Shrugging to himself, Race decided that he wanted something to drink, something to take his mind off of the tragedy that stood benignly in a neat little row before him. He took the few steps necessary away from the commemoration to a barstool. With a little difficulty, he pulled himself up and ordered a pint of beer.

* * *

_Jacobs' Apartment, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

A sort of scratching, struggling sound drifted to Hellie Caden's ears as she lay quietly beside the subconsious form of David Jacobs. Curious, and slightly off-ease, she sat up, tuning her sense of hearing more accutely to the foreign noise. Suddenly, the scratching ended in a sort of metallic snap, and the familiar sound of creaking hinges squeaked into her ears. Her dark eyes widened and began to search frantically for some sort of...defense item she might be able to use against the apparent invader. Finding the room devoid of any such item, she determined quickly to locking the door.

Before her feet even touched the floor, her one chance for protection was swung open with a sickening laziness. A lithe, familiar form stood stiffly in the doorway.

"Spot?" she breathed. Hellie didn't know why she wasn't relieved at finding it was him. He _had _ended the wa ...

"Heya, gorgeous."

The cold, icy words were burning her ears like a brand. Hellie took a deep breath as he turned the knob on the kerosene lamp just beside the door. The room was filled with a pallid, yellowish glow that felt more like death than the eternal blackness of night ever had to Hellie. She watched the flame play against his burnished skin like the golden epidermis of a pharaoh. There was something very ancient, and very brutal about the stony set of his jaw.

Spot stood rigidly over the peaceful form of David. Hellie watched him, her body trembling involuntarily. In the sickly light, she caught the sadistic glint of his cane at his side. Without another thought, she slung herself over David's body.

Spot allowed himself an irritated sigh, and tapped the nape of her neck dismissively with the blunt, heavy brass tip of his infamous walking stick.

"It'd be easier if I did you's one at a time."

Hellie turned her head and stared up at him, pleading with the dark, beautiful depths of her eyes. His silver-blue pools had frozen over. Her nerve shirked under the power of his glare, but she was stubborn in her protection.

"Your problem's not with him, Spot."

Brooklyn snorted, rubbing the brass tip of his cane over her temple tauntingly. " 'Course it is. He stole somethin' that belonged to me."

Hellie sat up, careful to stretch herself into a position so that Spot would still be left to deal with her before he dealt with David. He watched the strap of her night chemise fall off her shoulder, and he licked his lips mockingly. Her eyes glared cast iron daggers into his. Unfortunately, iron shatters into brittle shards when brought into sharp contact with the strength of solid steel.

"He didn't steal nothin', Spot. It was me all along. I ain't yah stupid cane, Conlon. I can't just be taken when someone grabs me. Davey didn't do nothin' wrong. _I_ kissed him, Spot. _I _seduced _him. _And you wanna know somethin', bigshot? He was good. He was better than you could ever--"

Her temple suffered a sharp, warning tap that resounded in her head with a dull throbbing. Her head snapped painfully to the side, but when her eyes returned to his, they burned even more fiercely with hatred for him.

"You sure as hell better know," Spot muttered darkly, pushing the other strap of her chemise off her opposite shoulder, "the only reason ya're still alive is so you can watch 'im die. Now move. I ain't killin' ya 'til you see what you did to 'im."

Hellie cocked an eyebrow challengingly. "Why don'tcha hit me again, Spotty?"

Spot held the cane lax in his hand, allowing it to wander lackidasically over her skin. The cold brass slid down her neck, across her shoulders, down the neckline of her chemise.

"You's a stupid girl," he told her plainly. "It's him I want."

Hellie took a deep breath, looking away. Her eyes turned to the closed eyelids, to the chest that rose and fell with the intake and export of breath. He was alive, but he was defenseless. Quickly, her eyes fleeted to Spot's, though her fingers were occupied with the laces that kept the top portion of her chemise decent. She could feel the light playing on the rarely exposed skin, and she kept her tears in giant wells for another time.

"Take me instead. Let 'im live; just take me instead."

Spot swallowed, his mature sexuality even now overwhelmed. He hadn't seen her in so long. Not like this, anyway. And he was reminded why he had kept her, and why he wanted to keep her still. He pulled her over the limp form of her lover, so that she stood clumbsily in front of him. She could feel his hands...and she wanted to die.

"Yah life for his."

Hellie nodded difficultly, not speaking for fear of revealing her disgust. She could not be disgusted. She had to be infatuated with him. Again.

He was kissing her now, deeply and suggestively, and all she wanted was to be out. To be away. But she kissed him back, because David's life was being determined by her kiss.

* * *

_Black Tavern, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Racetrack swallowed down the last rim of alcohol from his pint, and held up his hand for another one. He tried to glance over at the line of shots, but he couldn't really see them anymore. With a shrug, he turned to his next pint, reeling a little as he tried to take hold of the mug. His eyes surveyed the area, but very little would come into focus. Figuring it had always been that way, he swallowed down a gulp from his new pint.

"Why's everythin' spinnin'...?" he thought, though he may have said it out loud, too. It probably didn't matter.

Something very hard connected with his back, and he was staring up at nothing in particular. Where had everything gone? And where was his pint? Maybe he hadn't ordered it. Maybe the barkeep hadn't given it to him yet.

"Gimme a...nudder pint..."

He might have just thought that, too, because nothing appeared. He needed a cigar. Unfortunately, his pockets had disappeared. Wasn't that just like pockets. Snorting, he decided to ask somebody for a smoke. It was too bad everybody else had disappeared, too. Now, wasn't that just like people. He needed a smoke, and they all just disappeared.

"Cognac, please."

He was pretty sure he hadn't said it, but maybe he thought it. He didn't remember thinking it, though, so that didn't make much sense. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe nothing was happening at...

* * *

_Duane Street, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Mush was panting heavily by the time he reached the Lodging House. He wasn't expecting anyone to be there. Leaning up against the aged brick defeatedly, he realized he had nowhere to look. Whatever Brooklyn had planned was probably in effect right now, and he had no idea what to do about it. He took a deep breath, sending a furious kick to one of the trash barrels he presently stood by. The inhuman article gave a very convincing, pained, _"Ow!"_

Mush jumped, gawking at the barrel. He wondered remotely if he had finally gone completely insane. A moment later, his sanity was confirmed as Crutchy hobbled to a stand from his previous sitting position against that barrel. His wide, ridiculous grin greeted the larger boy in his empty, off-color manner.

"Heya, Mush! How's it been?"

The boxer shook his head. "Not the greatest, Crutchy."

His crippled friend continued grinning happily. "Well you should be at the big party, then! Dancin' away, meetin' the goils!" his eyebrows jiggled suggestively. Mush saved his laugh for later. The key word was "party."

"Party? Where's it at, Crutch? You gotta tell me."

Crutchy surveyed him skeptically. "Jeeze, Mush. You need to get out more. And damn, if I wasn't throwin' up every five minutes, it's where I'd be. Kloppman sent me out here so's I would dirty anything inside--"

Already, his source of information was straying from the point.

"Okay, but _where_ is the party, Crutchy? _Where?"_

His friend grinned even wider. "Down at Black Tavern, Mush. You know that joint where--"

Mush could assume that Crutchy kept talking about the tavern long after he was gone. Mush knew the place. And he knew he had to get there very, very soon.

* * *

_Black Tavern, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Clue dropped down behind the bar, listening for a moment to the havoc being wreaked upon the unfortunate, drunken souls of Upper East Side. He took a deep breath, and reloaded his pistol quickly. Jumping to his feet, his eye caught the reeling form of some Manhattaner, Jamie or Jess or...Jake. It was Jake. Taking his time to get proper aim, he sent a bullet whirring into the newsie's head. His eyes squeezed shut before he could watch the blood, or see the large form hit the ground with a dull, ugly thud. Clue didn't like killing people. He didn't enjoy it, or find reason to consider it a bit of fun. It was just...something that had to be done.

In a moment, he was on his feet again, eyes frantic for any more of them. The only forms he could see belonged to his own boys. Cautiously, he straightened his stance. His boys stared wide-eyed about the room, watching...listening for orders. Clue took a breath.

"Search 'em. Make sure the important ones is dead. If Racetrack Higgins, or Bumlets, or Specs, or Dutchy, or Snoddy, or even by some freakin' miracle, Jack Kelly should still be coughin' up his own blood, or barely breathin', or for some impossible reason not be here, it's your job to make sure they _isn't_ breathin' no more."

* * *

_Back Alley, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

The form nearing Spot Conlon and Hellie Caden was not necessarily threatening, but certainly contained a level of power that set the king of Brooklynb on edge. Spot froze, pushing Hellie behind him and yanking out a small pistol.

"Who the hell is that?" he demanded tersely.

The form recognized him, and whirled around. It started to run as fast as its muscular legs could carry it, and Spot cocked his gun nervously. Hellie watched his arm raise; watched him set his aim on the form's thigh. And she didn't know why she grabbed his arm just as his finger pulled the trigger, and set the bullet whizzing in a downward motion. For a moment, it appeared as if the fatal little article had struck nothing more than gravel, and Spot's eyes turned furiously to his girl.

"What the fuck are you doin'?"

But a heavy thud reassured them that the bullet still managed to hit a mark. Spot sent Hellie a warning look.

"Just stay here, alright? Can you _do_ that without doin' something abso-fuckin'-lutely stupid?"

Before he could storm forward, she took hold of his arm. His eyes threatened a change of mind about keeping her and David alive. She bit her lip fearfully, bashful gaze pleading.

"Would...could you leave me the gun? I don't like standing here alone..."

Spot rolled his eyes, jerking the pistol from its holster. Irritably, he pressed it into her palm, striding quickly towards the fallen stranger. A twisted, mangled form quickly appeared in the soft glow of the moon.

Hellie stared intently down at the little mechanism resting in her palm. She wrapped her fingers around the foreign object as she'd seen Spot do so many times, and her middle digit trembled as it rest on the trigger.

Spot leaned over the body, noting first the sharp stake that had skewered him through the middle. His brow furrowed in confusion, until he took note of the other broken shards of an old carriage that were strewn about the alley. He squatted down, checking for a bullet hole, then for a shell, since there was no entry wound in any of the usual places. Suddenly, the moonlight stretched its snowy white fingertips to the face of the fallen, and Spot's jaw went slack with disbelief.

"Mush?"

Hellie thought about taking aim deep into the alleyway, about taking a shot that may hit Spot Conlon dead on and kill him. The likelihood of that was slim. She had no idea how to do that, least of all in the dark, with no idea of what she was aiming for. She bit her lip, and felt her arm trembling. Her eyes squeezed shut as she pressed the cold barrel against her temple.

"Oh, my God."

Spot found the entry wound, and he could not believe it. The chances were...so unbelievably slim. There, in his foot...Right through his heel.

"Hey, Spot?"

He looked up, only able to make out Hellie's grim silhouette in the moonlight. His eyes widened, and he started to get back on his feet.

"Easy, girl--you don't wanna--"

_"Die?"_ she screamed across the alleyway. Her shrill voice bounced off of the walls in a manner that caused the great Spot Conlon to startle a little. Hellie swallowed hard, sweat collecting on her skin. Her throat swelled with a sob. "Yes...I do, Spot. Yes I do--"

"Hellie--"

"You'd rather have me dead than with him, isn't that the truth? _Isn't it?!"_ she yelled. Spot glared down the alleyway, and didn't say anything. Hellie sniffed, blinking rapidly. He couldn't see her dark smile. "You win."

Her finger squeezed the trigger, and the moonlight caressed another fallen form.

* * *

_New York Institute for the Mentally Ill, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"You say you're her brother?" the young secretary asked of the streetrat, noting immediately the undeniable traces of whiskey on his breath. The boy nodded frantically.

"Yeah, yeah. David. I'm David Jacobs."

She rose an eyebrow, surveying him skeptically. "You don't look Jewish."

The boy slammed his fist on the desk. "Who says we're Jewish?"

The secretary shrugged. " 'Kay. You want the records of Sarah Jacobs?"

He nodded quickly. "That's what I said, sweetie."

She rolled her eyes, thumbing through a little catalogue of cards. "Sarah Jacobs. Age 18, Brown hair, brown eyes, Upper East Side, Manhattan?"

The boy nodded again. "That's the one."

The secretary stood with an irritable sigh. "One moment, please." And disappeared into a little office behind her.

Jack Kelly took a deep breath. He had to know. For sure, he had to be certain about Sarah, or else...His mind clouded. He just needed to know.

* * *

_Black Tavern, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

"We can't find Jack, Clue."

The Brooklyn brain surveyed the damage to the tavern carefully. He lit a cigarette, only to throw the flaming little cylinder away from him. It hit Skittery's shot glass and created a furious little fire on the tiny amber ocean. Frantically, it jumped to Trigger McKay's glass, and lit every other shot, excepting Kid Blink's, which stood empty. Its heated burning reflected dangerously in Clue's eyes, and he turned back to the Brooky who had told him this.

"Then let it go," he murmured quietly. "Just let him go."

* * *

_New York Institute for the Mentally Ill, Manhattan Territory, 1900_

Jack Kelly's eyes scanned the words blankly, a chill skittering up his spine, only to turn about and race down again. Sarah Jacobs was dead. Skittery was dead. Kid Blink was dead. Trigger McKay was dead. But his mind did not stop there. For some reason, it kept running, and every name that occured to him was engraved on a gravestone in his brain. Racetrack Higgins is dead. Mush Meyers is dead. Hellie Caden is dead. Jake is dead. Bumlets is dead. Snoddy is dead. Dutchy is dead.

_David Jacobs..._

_Spot Conlon..._

_Crystal Caden..._

_Jack Kelly..._

He turned the page of the report carefully, as if it were the original manuscript of some sacred scripture. Listed, in neat, proper handwriting, were things Sarah had said in fits. Foreign things. Ridiculous things. Meaningless things...no more. His lips were trembling. And he didn't know why he read the last one aloud...

_"Why must the heroes die? Why must the guilty survive? Why is happiness but a memory when the good men are dead and gone?"_


	22. Epilogue

* * *

_Author's Note: So this story has been finished for a while. I've always liked the idea of it, and so I decided to read over it again one night. Within five minutes, I was exporting chapters and fixing errors: spelling, purple prose, spacing, etc. I also expanded on a few areas of dialogue, which I think helps the story along considerably. Now that I've read through it, I feel that the ending is definitely good--it just leaves a few loose ends. So, just to be fair to all of you guys, I've finally decided to write an epilogue. You might as well know what happens with Spot, Jack, and David, right? So here it is._

* * *

**_EPILOGUE_**

_Spot Conlon's Apartment, Brooklyn Territory, 1900_

_"Put me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm..."_

The steady, quiet voice seemed to be coming from somewhere outside of Spot Conlon's sleeping mind. His body stirred, and his ears reached to find the source of the voice. His eyelids fluttered, but he groaned and turned on his side again. The voice grew louder:

_"For love is as strong as death, jealousy is as severe as Sheol..."_

Spot's brow furrowed and he slowly opened his eyes to the dim, gray morning. It was much too early to be awake, but the voice continued--by his side, now. He jerked his head around to see where it was coming from, and his gaze collided with a familiar form sitting at his bedside.

"Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord. Many waters cannot quench love, nor will rivers overflow it; if a man were to give all the riches of his house for love, it would be utterly despised."

Spot sat up quickly, reaching beneath his pillow. The boy sitting by his bed held up a long knife, twisting the blade in the early light.

"Looking for this?"

The king of Brooklyn let out a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head to the side and gave his visitor a snide little nod. "'Mornin', Dave."

David Jacobs might have laughed. "Do you know what I just recited for you?"

Spot glanced at the ceiling, and then back at the weapon in David's hand. "If you's gonna embarrass yourself tryin' to kill me, how's about you just get it over with? I don't got time for your stupid games."

"It's from Song of Solomon," David went on easily. "Do you know who Solomon was, Spot?"

"Do I look like I give a fuck?"

David was unabashed. "He was a king of Israel. God said he'd give him whatever he wanted, and he asked for wisdom. I just thought you'd like some advice from the wisest guy that ever lived."

Spot smirked. "Yeah. I'll be sure to take that to heart."

"I loved her, Spot."

Brooklyn shifted his weight nonchalantly, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. "So?"

David lunged at the other boy, pinning him to the bed with a sudden and surprising force. Before Spot Conlon had a moment to think, he had a knife at his throat. He smiled grimly, staring up at David with defiant eyes.

"This is some class, Dave, killin' a guy with his own knife."

David's teeth clenched. Spot saw the tears welling his his eyes, and grinned.

"Or do you got the guts to do it? Huh, Dave? Mr. 'Don't-soak-the-scabs'? _Ah..._can'tcha do it?"

David took a deep breath, blinking hard a few times. He pressed the knife harder against Spot's throat.

"Or are ya considerin' the consequences? I bet you are, you brainy fuck. I bet you's thinkin' about what could happen to you if you killed Spot Conlon."

David shook his head slowly. He glanced at the window, a sad smile on his face.

"You know I got friends," Spot told him conversationally. "I got friends who could put your insides on your outsides if you's wantin' to get rid of me."

Their eyes met again, and Spot noticed something strange in David's gaze. Something was cool, and triumphant, and maybe a bit sympathetic in those blue depths that made him curious...and caused his stomach a twinge of uneasiness. David ran his tongue over his lips, tilting the knife so that only the tip was touching Spot's neck.

"Nobody's coming after me," he said quietly.

Spot laughed, and the small movement of his throat against the blade caused a thin trickle of blood to ebb down his skin. "Oh, yeah? How do you figure?"

David smiled, but only for a moment. His fingers tightened on the handle. "Because nobody loves you, Spot."

Brooklyn opened his mouth to say something, but David jammed the knife into his throat. Spot gasped for his breath, laboring loudly for air with horrible, gurgling noises. David's face paled, and he held back the sickness swimming in his mind. His body shook as he got off of the bed. He crossed the small room with quivering steps, the room twisting and tilting before his dizzy eyes. He grasped the doorknob desperately, grimacing at the blood staining his hand. He flung the door open wildly, stumbling out into the hallway. His heart clattered in his chest, and he gripped the wall for strength.

Swallowing hard, he looked up to meet Jack's worried, curious eyes. Cowboy was leaning stiffly against the wall beside him, his hand clenched around something in his coat. David stared at him in confusion.

"Jack, what's--"

He realized too late. Jack watched David Jacobs' body collapse on the floor, his expression still puzzled and sickly. Jack Kelly glanced at the gun in his hand and tossed it on the floor beside his friend. With a ruthless sigh, he walked to the end of the hallway and started up the stairs.

They didn't get it, neither of them.

Stuff like this--it never ends. Spot thought he could win if he just got rid of enough people...but he didn't get rid of the right ones. And David--David thought he had nothing left to lose. He thought he could finish it if he just killed Spot. But Jack knew, Jack got it.

He stepped out onto the roof of the building. The sun was starting to rise. It was already so humid--it was going to be another hot day. Gray mists were rising off of the streets, and he was reminded of a bathtub and a beautiful, terrible girl and his own insanity.

Maybe David was right. Maybe nobody loved Spot. But that didn't mean that nobody loved Brooklyn--that nobody loved the idea of being tough and powerful and on top. Maybe nobody gave a lick about Spot Conlon, but a whole lot of people liked what he stood for. David didn't think he would face any repercussions if he killed Spot, but Jack knew...Jack knew Spot wasn't kidding when he said he had dangerous friends, friends who would have tortured David into a much more painful death.

Jack walked to the edge of the building. He stared down at the alleyway so far below.

_Why must the guilty survive?_

The guilty were dead now. Justice was done. Everything was settled. There was no one left to get rid of, no one left to care. By tomorrow, by next month, next year--New York will have forgotten that David Jacobs fell in love with Spot Conlon's girl, that two friends became grim enemies in a gang war, that Brooklyn massacred Manhattan boys in a bar. No one will remember that such people were ever around. There will be other David Jacobs, other Spot Conlons, other Hellie Cadens.

Jack closed his eyes and leaned forward, the air whipping past his face as he fell faster and faster towards the ground.

There will be other Jack Kellys, too.


End file.
